


Break the Chain

by dracoqueen22



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, political machinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 02:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Desperate to bring some much needed tactical assistance to the Decepticon uprising, Megatron attempts to recruit Prowl, an outcast Enforcer with a frame exemption. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, political machinations are at work to stem the Decepticon tide and turn Cybertron back to the preferred status quo.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is sponsored by a wonderfully anonymous person!
> 
> Side note: The M-rating is because of one scene of very brief, barely explicit Sideswipe/Sunstreaker nsfw. Their relationship remains in the background, but so brief I didn't feel it merited a tag. However, it is here so if that is something you wish to avoid, here's the warning.

Silverspire shuffles the datapads on his desk. And then shuffles them again. Other than the low clatter of that moment, the sound of their ventilations, the room is silent. Unlike others, Silverspire doesn’t believe in ambient music for either focus or calm. It’s more than a little unsettling.   
  
Prowl cycles his ventilations. He concentrates on the meditative exercises Yoketron had taught him. They keep his spark calm and his sensory panels still.   
  
“Prowl,” Silverspire finally says, without looking up at him. His argent paint gleams impeccably, and Prowl supposes that if one has a small army of servants, that makes it easier to always come across near-perfect. “Your application is, as always, exemplary. But you must understand, all of the applicants for this position are exemplary. The competition is quite fierce.”   
  
“I understand, sir.” Prowl’s jaw tightens. His spark spools into a tight knot in his chamber. “And I’ve seen the public record of the other applicants. None of them match my skillset, test scores, or active duty record.”   
  
Silverspire sighs and threads his fingers together, folding his hands on the desk. “Their humility, however, far outpaces yours.” He frowns, and his ice-blue optics finally focus on Prowl. “They can be molded, while you are stubborn. You have a penchant for causing trouble. And difficulty keeping a partner. These are your weaknesses.”   
  
The stack of datapads to Silverspire’s right is damning evidence. Prowl can read the name on the top – Tumbler. He knows the others below it are his previous partners, many of whom are deceased. Some transferred. Fewer still outright resigned.   
  
He’s cursed, they say. It’s why Prowl works alone now. No one will consent to partner him.   
  
Prowl works his intake, sweeps his glossa over dry lips. “If insubordination were a disqualification, half of the applicants would have already been disregarded.”   
  
Silverspire shifts, the quietest of sighs gusting from his vents. “I’m going to be honest with you, Prowl,” he says, and Prowl braces for the lie. “You can continue to apply for this position. Everyone is welcome to make the attempt. But I can not conceivably see a point in the future where you will ever be granted it.”   
  
Only half-lie then. Silverspire knows good and well that at this point, the position will never be Prowl’s. They do not want him in it, and only saving face is what allows him to keep trying.   
  
“And why is that, sir?” Prowl asks, through gritted denta, the taste of ground metal on his glossa, and anger burning fierce and hot at the back of his intake.   
  
Silverspire looks at him, and there’s dismissal in the way he reviews Prowl’s sturdier frame, the jut of his sensory panels, the heavier armor he’s been sparked with. Without the exemption, Prowl wouldn’t be here. He’d be a nameless grunt in the army, one among many just like him, trained to follow orders and kill for the greater good of Cybertron, without once wondering if those orders are worth following.   
  
There is nothing in those details Prowl has chosen for himself.   
  
They can pull him from the ranks of those sparked alongside him. They can test his abilities, measure his potential, decide him wasted among the infantry. They can pull him into another division, train him, give him a fancy title…   
  
It doesn’t change what he is. It doesn’t change the thickness of his armor, the warrior’s build. They can change so many things, but not the frame he was sparked with.   
  
“It is not a place for you,” Silverspire says, at length and ah, there is the lie, so smoothly given. “You are good at what you do, Prowl. Your work for us is exemplary. You keep the mechs of Crystal City safe. Be content with that.” He smiles, and there’s so much condescension in it, Prowl wants to strike him. “It’s a good life. We’re not all meant for something more.”   
  
Prowl’s hands ache. His fingers beg for mercy, but if he unclenches his fists, he might do violence. “Is that all, sir?” he asks, tone tight and measured, while his spark swirls and whirls into points of fury.   
  
He wants to leave before he can’t control himself any longer.   
  
“No.” Silverspire lifts one of the datapads off the stack and offers it to Prowl. “I have your next assignment here.”   
  
Prowl takes it with nerveless fingers, his face schooled into indifferent politeness. He listens to Silverspire’s summary of the case but the details go in one audial and out the other.   
  
He’s too aware of the datapad by Silverspire’s left elbow. The one with his application and the Rejection stamped over every digital page.   
  
He wonders if the committee even looked at his service record and test scores before rejecting him. Had they only read of his sparking place? The particulars of his birth?   
  
He would drive himself mad thinking about it.   
  
Prowl already knows the truth.   
  
His promotion is never going to happen. He’s simply going to have to learn to be satisfied with what he has now.   
  
He tunes back into Silverspire’s summary. This, right here, is all he has.   


 

~

  
  
Chancellor Bracket, the first proposer of the Decepticon Registration Act, had been murdered in his habsuite last night. Now, he’s Prowl’s problem. Prowl alone because apparently they aren’t assigning him another partner.   
  
Prowl tells himself it’s fine. He works better without one anyway. There’s no one to slow him down, no one to get in the way, no one to question his plans of action. He can investigate without having to wait for someone else’s approval.   
  
It’s… it’s better this way. For himself. For any potential partner. If history has shown him anything, it’s that he’s better off alone.   
  
He feels the weight of the rejection nonetheless. The invisible brand on his forehead that marks him as cursed. A troublemaker. Unemployable.   
  
Prowl continues to do his job regardless. He visits the Chancellor’s habsuite, marked off for investigation, and takes a look for himself. The file had contained all relevant information and evidence gathered by the crime scene technicians, but Prowl prefers what he can see with his own optics.   
  
At first glance, the conclusion is obvious: Chancellor Bracket was murdered by a supporter or participant of the Decepticon movement. Pit, it could have been one of the branded mechs even. They’ve got all the proof they need in the massive Decepticon brand on the wall, paint running in lurid, wet streaks to pool on the floor. Like a calling card.   
  
A really obvious, really stupid calling card.   
  
According to the file, Chancellor Bracket had been shot. Three taps. Spark. Cog. Processor. The weapon is likely to be a handblaster of some kind, judging by the lack of gore and other mess staining the interior.   
  
Prowl crouches over the marked off zone where Bracket’s corpse had been found. Nothing’s been cleaned. Fluids still stained the meshcarpet. Bits of metal and internal components glimmer tackily in the energon spill.   
  
Precision shots, he guesses. Though he has to see the corpse to be sure. Professional work. Or at least, someone who’s been trained to handle a weapon. Not your average Decepticon. If it was indeed a Decepticon.   
  
He stands. There’s no sign of a struggle. No sign of forced entry. It’s as if Bracket had stood there, waiting to be shot. He’d known and/or trusted his killer. Possibly both.   
  
This doesn’t meant it wasn’t a Decepticon. Though to leave a mark behind is a sign of sloppiness. Or arrogance. It could have been a Decepticon, Prowl supposes. One who is flying under the radar, who hasn’t outwardly joined the rebellion, but supports it from the inside. That seems more sophisticated than the ragtag nature of the group, however.   
  
Hmm.   
  
Prowl’s optics lift to the message scrawled on the wall again. ‘You are being deceived.’ The Decepticon rallying cry. Everyone knows it. Anyone can duplicate it.   
  
It’s too convenient. Too easy. Prowl doesn’t trust easy.   
  
His frown deepens.   
  
There’s more to this. He’s sure of it.   


 

~

  
  
The daily news reels in the background. Megatron only half-listens to it as he skims his datapad, free hand rapping the arm of his chair. He’s reading without comprehending, thoughts elsewhere. Starscream would call it brooding. Perhaps he’s not far off the mark.   
  
The Decepticon numbers grow in leaps and bounds. More and more join with every passing cycle. The people are angry. Downtrodden. Tired of being used. They are eager to finally have an opportunity to do something. They take their new armament, their new training with a vivacity unmatched by anything Megatron has ever seen.   
  
He’s quickly building a formidably large army.   
  
Unfortunately, numbers aren’t everything. It’s still not a very effective army. He lacks skilled, trustworthy leadership. Smarter, cleverer minds to help lead the way. Recruiting soldiers is easy.   
  
Recruiting leaders is another matter entirely.   
  
“Megatron.”   
  
He lowers the datapad and tilts his head. “What is it, Soundwave?” He hadn’t heard Soundwave’s approach, but then, that is Soundwave’s way. He thrives in the silence and the shadows.   
  
Soundwave slinks to his side, quiet for all of his bulk. He slides a datapad into view, and Megatron accepts it.   
  
“Designation: Prowl,” Soundwave explains as Megatron powers on the datapad and the image of an Enforcer comes into view. Stern features, probably attractive if he’d smile. The basic black and white paint of his station.   
  
His record scrolls alongside his image. It’s impressive. Top marks. Top skills. But ah, here’s the point of interest. He hadn’t been sparked an Enforcer. Curiouser and curiouser.   
  
“You took me seriously when I asked you for recommendations, didn’t you?” Megatron asks as he peruses the record.   
  
“Affirmative.”   
  
“And you think this Prowl is a good candidate?”   
  
Soundwave sweeps his finger across the screen, and highlights a section of Prowl’s file. Three times denied for a position he’s qualified for three times over? Looks like some frame bias here, a great deal of functionalism as well. The leadership is more than content to use Prowl as they see fit, given his aptitude, but only on their terms. They have no interest in Prowl as an individual.   
  
Megatron’s lips curve into a slow smile. “Good job, Soundwave. You are, as always, on the right track.” He leans back in his chair, idly thumbing through the rest of Prowl’s file. “Perhaps we should send Starscream to make the initial contact. They have a lot in common.”   
  
“Negative.”   
  
Megatron looks up at Soundwave, head tilted. It isn’t often Soundwave dissents, so when he does, Megatron is inclined to listen. “You disagree?”   
  
Soundwave hesitates, as he always does, when presenting a conflicting opinion. “Starscream too… mercurial for Enforcer Prowl. Recommend you approach.” He lowers his head, gaze eerily focused on Megatron, as if trying to impart some knowledge by will alone.   
  
“Me?” Megatron presses his lips in a thin line, assessing Prowl all over again.   
  
Multiple partners in the past. All of whom either requested transfers or are now deceased. A few marks on his record for insubordination, but a near-perfect record for solving cases. He has an incredibly analytical mind, according to his test scores, which are of course perfect. He’s a soldier sparked, but tested into a better field.   
  
“Hm. I see your point.”   
  
Megatron raps his fingers over the arm of the chair again. He stares at the vidscreen, seeing without seeing, the news reeling across the bottom. Something about a chancellor being murdered. Only the rich and powerful would care about such a thing.   
  
Mechs like Megatron and Soundwave, like the citizens gathering under their banner, have no cares for dead chancellors. They’ll be replaced soon enough, with someone equally worthy of being loathed. There’s no point in paying attention.   
  
“We’ll be careful with this one,” Megatron says as he reads through Prowl’s file once more, his attention drawn back to the image, those ice-blue optics staring back at him. “Convincing him won’t be easy. But I believe it can be done. Good work, Soundwave.”   
  
Soundwave’s field goes flush with delight at the praise. He dips his head and leaves, vanishing in much the way he arrived – silently.   
  
Megatron cycles through Prowl’s file again. Just to be sure.   
  
Yes. He’ll do quite nicely.   


 

~

  
  
It’s far past the end of his shift by the time Prowl returns to his habsuite, laden with evidence and clues, all of it pointing to a clear-cut suspect. It would be so easy if he could be be content with the obvious answer.   
  
He’s absolutely not.   
  
The entry wounds on Chancellor Bracket’s corpse had been precise. The residue suggested a basic handblaster with silencing chip. Surveillance in Bracket’s high-priced high-rise had already been wiped. Someone knew to cover their tracks. This feels like a professional hit, not the act of a mech driven by anger and desperation and revenge.   
  
The Decepticons do not hire professional assassins. They might employ a few among their ranks, that would not surprise Prowl in the least. He still doesn’t think the Decepticons responsible. Any professional working for the Decepticons would know better than to paint the scene with an obvious clue.   
  
Bracket had angered someone. Prowl is sure of this much. He doesn’t know if the anger is personal or professional or if there is some deeper connection he hasn’t made. He is, however, certain that the easy answer is not the correct one.   
  
He refuses to sign off on the report until he has incontrovertible proof.   
  
Prowl tosses the datapad onto his desk and slides onto the stool. He flicks on his personal console, and while he waits for it to boot, rubs exhaustion from his optics. It’s going to be another late night. And for what? To prove himself to superiors who are never going to grant him a promotion? To work endlessly for zero recognition?   
  
Would it have been better if he’d never tested out of the infantry?   
  
A new message notification blinks at him from the corner of his screen.   
  
Prowl frowns and clicks on the icon. He doesn’t recognize the sender, but other than that, it doesn’t have the indicators of a fake mail. The subject line reads ‘From One Exemption to Another’.  
  
He opens the message and skims the contents, surprise seeping into his spark with each absorbed glyph. He reaches the end, sees the name its tagged with, and immediately starts back at the top, reading slowly and carefully, looking for hidden nuances, traps, anything to explain the purpose behind the message. Anything but the obvious: that it’s genuine.   
  
Megatron. Leader of the Decepticons. Why on Cybertron would he contact Prowl?   
  
More than that, why does he want to meet? What makes him think Prowl would be interested?   
  
The subject line doesn’t make any sense, either. Megatron’s not frame-exempt. He’s pulled himself out of the mines. It’s where he should have spent the rest of his functioning. The very fact he’s not mining right now, that he’s started a revolution and fights in the gladiator pits and writes political manifestos, goes against every grain of the Cybertron’s leadership. His rage against the machine is unapproved. That doesn’t count as an exemption!  
  
And yet.   
  
Prowl finds himself drawn to the communication. He re-reads carefully enough to commit the letter to memory. 

> _Enforcer Prowl,_
> 
> _I am not going to insult your intelligence by lying to you,_ the message begins. _Neither will I try to persuade you with pretty words or twists of the truth. Though our message has always been ‘you are being deceived’ and we’ve taken upon the name ‘Decepticons’, it has never been our intention to be considered liars. And so, I will not lie to you now._
> 
> _Yes, the authorities have branded us criminals. This is only because that which we stand accused of, should never have been outlawed in the first place. The institution should serve the people, not the other way around. We have chosen not to accept a life of dictation, one where we are forbidden to speak or live the lives we choose._
> 
> _Criminals is not what we are, simply what they’ve made us. We are those who wish to rise up against the chains keeping us bound in our roles. Surely you can understand this. You who despised your frame-given task and sought to become something more._
> 
> _Cybertron sees us as criminals not because of our actions, but because of the title the authorities have given us. Our narrative has been twisted to hide the truth of our intentions because the Senate and the Council both know that there is anger, there is upset, there is dissatisfaction. They know our words will reach the masses. They know they are outnumbered. And so they seek to muddle our message by branding us something we are not._
> 
> _I don’t expect you to take my words for granted. I invite you to come to your own conclusions. I invite you to look into the institution and see the cracks in the foundation for yourself. And when you find reason to question, I invite you to find me. Simply respond to this message, and I will make the arrangements._
> 
> _You are being deceived. You and the rest of the people deserve to know this. I feel you are an important ally, Prowl. You can be a voice for the people, a voice for change._
> 
> _You are needed, Prowl._
> 
> _I await your reply._

  
It is simply signed, ‘Megatron’. No glorious titles attached.   
  
Prowl frowns and reads the message again. Then twice more. He looks for hidden meanings, not that he knows Megatron well enough to read between the lines. He doesn’t know what Megatron wants from him. It reads like a recruitment pamphlet.   
  
Prowl scoffs. As if he’d be interested in anything the Decepticons have to offer.   
  
His finger hovers over the delete button. His gaze slides over to the datapad on his desk, the one detailing Chancellor Bracket’s murder. It’s a painful reminder.   
  
Thrice denied for a promotion he’s rightly earned.   
  
Unpartnered despite policy and procedure stating such a thing is not allowed.   
  
No matter how hard he works, how much he proves himself, it will never be enough. He’ll always be the soldier-turned-detective, frame exempt only because it suits their use, and not his desires.   
  
The Decepticons aren’t wrong, Prowl knows.   
  
He just doesn’t know if they are right.   
  
He leaves the message be. He raps his fingers over the desktop, contemplating. He doesn’t trust Megatron. He wouldn’t trust any Decepticon who reached out to him. He needs more information, more data, in order to make an informed decision.   
  
Prowl logs into the Enforcer database and starts a search. He knows, vaguely, about the start of the Decepticon uprising and what led to Megatron gaining a following. But he hasn’t poked too much into that nest of scraplets because it’s not his task. It doesn’t fall under his purview.   
  
He pokes it now.   
  
There’s an officer linked to Megatron’s record – Orion Pax. Prowl recognizes the name, has to fight back a sneer. Orion Pax is very well known across law enforcement. Supposedly fearless, with an impeccable record, and a penchant for disobeying orders if he has a better idea. Despite that, he’s highly decorated. He’ll probably get promoted with ease. Mechs like him. That he’s Forged and born into service doesn’t hurt either.   
  
Prowl only skims Orion’s record. He’s more interested in the connection to Megatron. They’ve had multiple points of contact over the years. How interesting. Perhaps Orion Pax can shed some light on why Megatron would contact Prowl in the first place. Aside from the obvious, of course.   
  
Prowl sighs and composes a message to Orion through the Enforcer system, implying it’s in connection to a case. It’s not a difficult link – Bracket had been supposedly killed by a Decepticon after all, and a lot of Decepticon activity occurs on the edge of Orion’s jurisdiction.   
  
Prowl clicks send before he can think twice about it and logs out of both system and console.   
  
He rubs his temples and sighs. Exhaustion tugs at every line and every cable. He’ll have another early shift tomorrow. Silverspire, and his superiors above him, will be on Prowl’s aft to solve the case as soon as impossible.   
  
Chancellor Bracket is important. He’s considered a VIP case. Never mind the other investigations Prowl is still processing, the other victims who deserves justice as much as Bracket. They aren’t a priority. It’s implicit. Prowl doesn’t need the order to know Bracket takes precedence over anything on his dock.   
  
This is the Cybertron he lives in.   


 

***


	2. Chapter 2

Prowl onlines the next morning to a headline that screams “Chancellor Bracket Murdered by Decepticon Criminals” and his jaw tightens into a clench. His investigation is still in the preliminary stages; he doesn’t even have a working theory. The press should not be allowed to announce such unproven truths.   
  
Someone should be fired for that leak. Save Prowl is certain it wasn’t so much as a leak as a sanctioned release of information. The authorities want the citizenry to be wary of the Decepticons. They want the people to fear criminals. Fear leads to obedience.   
  
Megatron’s words haunt him.   
  
He sips a morning cube, indecision tossing and churning inside of him. He logs into his console, and there’s a chime, indicating he has a message.  
  
Orion Pax has replied, much quicker than Prowl could have hoped, and has sent a time and location for them to meet. Other than continuing his investigation, Prowl has nothing on his schedule. There’s something curt and business-like about Orion’s response. Prowl appreciates it. No bothering with pointless pleasantries, this one.   
  
It’s refreshing.   
  
Prowl replies with an affirmative and logs off his computer, if only so he doesn’t have to keep seeing the outrageous banner at the top of the screen. His investigation isn’t even a cycle old and the media have already pointed fingers. They are smart to attack an ideal, a vague group, rather than an individual in particular. A person’s motives can be suspect. A group’s motives? Significantly less so.   
  
Prowl scrapes a hand down his face and rises from his console. There’s too much to do for him to sit around and brood. Orion’s meeting time gives him just enough to rinse off and gulp down a cube before he has to fight the morning rush to make it to the other side of the city in time.   
  
He pauses, however, and reconsiders.   
  
He should take a copy of the message for Orion to peruse, he decides. Perhaps Orion can divine some deeper meaning behind it, or recognize a message between the lines. It’s worth a try.   
  
Right now, Prowl can use any information at his disposal.   
  


~

  
  
“He didn’t delete the message,” Megatron muses aloud, an odd sense of glee coiling around the spirals of his spark. “Neither did he report it.”   
  
“Affirmative,” Soundwave says, from his right, barely breaking the shadows. A dark frame perches on his shoulder – Laserbeak or Buzzsaw, Megatron is still not sure which is which. He suspects they prefer it that way.   
  
Nearby, Starscream snorts. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Megatron. He’s not yours yet.” His tone is light, but the warning in the words speak of something else.   
  
“No, but it’s promising.”   
  
Megatron peers into the mirror. He can see Starscream over his left shoulder. The Seeker reclines in the rickety chair, one leg folded over the other, lip curled with derision. Perhaps a touch of jealousy there as well.   
  
He and Prowl are either going to be the worst of enemies or the best of friends. They share a similar keen intellect, and a penchant for tactics.   
  
“He’s receptive,” Megatron says as he catches Starscream’s optic before returning his attention to applying the paint streaks on his face. “He’s not unaware of the political rumblings around him. He’s not blindly loyal.”   
  
“He’s contacted Orion Pax,” Starscream drawls and shifts, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. Megatron’s gaze is briefly drawn to the movement. “And we all know it’s impossible to say who’s side that one is on.”   
  
“Situation complicated.” Soundwave moves to Megatron’s right, directly into view. He offers two weapons, carefully selected by Soundwave himself for Megatron’s use.   
  
Megatron debates them. A glaive or an axe? This bout’s sponsor wants a show of strength, not particularly skill. He doesn’t care about logistics. He wants to be entertained. The glaive will certainly accomplish that, whereas the axe is more a tool of quick, efficient victory.   
  
Starscream snorts. “There’s nothing complicated about it. What we have here is a clash of egos.” He pushes himself to his feet, wings rattling around him. “Orion might agree with you, but he’s not interested in doing things your way.”   
  
Megatron taps the handle of the glaive and half-turns to peer at Starscream. “You think Orion will recruit Prowl instead?”  
  
Starscream folds his arms over his cockpit and shrugs. “It’s possible. They’re both Enforcers. They both have a respect for the law.” At this, he sneers. “I don’t know Prowl well enough to hypothesize.” He tilts his head. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see if your newest project is worth the effort.”   
  
Megatron cycles a ventilation and slots the glaive into the sheath across his back. There’s no transforming allowed for this bout. It’s not as much a disadvantage as the organizers think it is. Megatron doesn’t need his alt-mode to fight.   
  
His opponent might be a little put out.   
  
“Extend Prowl an invitation.” Megatron dips his fingers in the paint one more time and sweeps them over his unadorned cheek.   
  
“To meet in person?” Starscream demands, his voice edging toward a shriek, as though horrified. “So he can bring an army and arrest you?” His wings snap taut, the sharp noise echoing in the small suite.   
  
Megatron wipes his fingers clean and faces his two closest confidantes: friends, allies, most trusted advisors. “He won’t do that.”   
  
“You sound awfully certain for someone you haven’t even met yet,” Starscream hisses. His wings arch upright. “It’s not just your spark on the line here, you know.”   
  
Megatron’s gaze slants toward Soundwave. The carrier mech dips his head in assent.   
  
“To next match?” Soundwave asks.   
  
Starscream’s optics widen. “You agree with this idiotic plan?”   
  
Soundwave tilts his head toward Starscream. Whatever passes between them isn’t said aloud, but it makes Starscream’s optics narrow, for all that Soundwave doesn’t move and the light behind his visor doesn’t shift. Perhaps the avian cassette’s stare is equally convincing.   
  
Starscream’s lips press in a thin line. He stares at the far wall, venting noisily. “For the record, I’m against this.”   
  
“Noted,” Soundwave says.   
  
Megatron grabs his shield as the ready light blinks atop his door, and a loud buzz demands his presence. The ground rumbles beneath his feet to the tune of thousands of voices, roaring and cheering.   
  
“You’d better win,” Starscream says with a telltale smirk as he moves aside, clearing a path to the door. “Wouldn’t want your recruit to think he’s throwing in with a losing side.”   
  
Megatron rolls his optics. He ignores Starscream, but hears Soundwave hiss at the Seeker behind him, chastisement perhaps.   
  
They’ll sort themselves out.   
  
For now, there’s a big brute of a mech who thinks he can crush Megatron in less than ten seconds.   
  
It’s time to disabuse him of the error of that assumption.   
  


~

  
  
Orion Pax is a very busy mech.   
  
Prowl supposes that comes with the territory, given all of the awards he’s acquired, the mechs he knows, the way others look up to him. Rumor has it, even, that Orion has Senator Shockwave’s favor. A mech Prowl knows as well, but not to the extent Orion Pax seems to have befriended him.   
  
It’s ridiculous. It’s immature. It’s pointless.   
  
Prowl is jealous nonetheless. He sees awards he’ll never earn. Commendations none of his superiors will ever offer to him. He sees promotions he doesn’t qualify for by simple manner of his sparking.   
  
He sees a mech who has all the things Prowl has worked so hard to acquire. It’s hard not to boil in his resentment. Orion deserves them, Prowl is sure. His record certainly reflects it. He’s a good officer. He’s a good mech.   
  
It’s still fragging unfair.   
  
The door opens. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” Orion says as he comes inside, striding forward, larger than life and hand extended with greeting. He’s smiling. “There was a recalcitrant arrestee out there.”   
  
And of course, only Orion Pax can deescalate the situation, right?   
  
“No, it’s quite all right,” Prowl replies, swallowing down the snide reply because it’s not Orion’s fault. None of it is.   
  
He accepts the extended hand. Orion’s shake is firm, friendly. There’s kindness in his optics, but a harshness around the edges, too. He could easily be one of Prowl’s friends. But he could be someone’s worst enemy, also, if you made the mistake of committing a crime.   
  
“I understand you wanted to speak about Megatron?” Orion says as he lets go of Prowl’s hand and moves to his desk. He gestures to the chair across from it so Prowl can sit.   
  
He declines. He can’t explain why. Just that if he sits, he’ll feel lesser somehow. He needs to stand to feel on an even keel with Orion Pax, decorated and accomplished, everyone’s favorite.   
  
“Yes,” Prowl says. “I’m told you’ve had some contact with him, prior to his forming the Decepticons and fomenting a rebellion.”   
  
Orion sweeps some of the mess from his desk to the side and leans forward, lacing his fingers together, bracing his elbows on the edge of the desk. “I was present for the incident that many claim is the launching point, yes.”   
  
Prowl tilts his head. “You disagree?”   
  
Orion’s lips purse before he answers. “I think that there was something rotten in Cybertron long before Megatron got involved in that bar fight, and long before one of our officers committed a crime upon his person while he was in our custody.” He looks up at Prowl, his optics incisive. “Rather than a launching point, I’d call it the final bolt.”   
  
“You’ve had contact with him since?” Prowl asks.   
  
Orion leans back and rests a hand on the desk, rapping his fingers in a steady rhythm. “Am I under investigation?”   
  
Prowl cycles his optics. He slides into parade rest on instinct. “Not to my knowledge. My interest is… personal.” Though he won’t be at all surprised if there is an operative subtly watching Orion, hoping to discover a means to get to Megatron through him.   
  
“Personal,” Orion echoes. He stares at Prowl, and there’s something incisive in the look, as though he’s trying to read Prowl’s spark through his optics alone. “How so?”   
  
He doesn’t know if he can trust Orion. But he has to start somewhere. Because he doesn’t know if he can trust Megatron either. And there’s no one else in his life Prowl can trust right now.   
  
If he vanishes. If he goes missing. No one will care. No one will notice.   
  
If he doesn’t start now, who will mourn him? Who will carry on this task?  
  
“He contacted me.” Prowl watches Orion closely for any kind of tell, a sign of his reaction. Orion’s face is perfectly composed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to recruit me.”   
  
Orion nods slowly, his optics briefly flickering as he purses his lips to a thin line. “That sounds like something he’d do,” he replies with a thoughtful hum. “Though how you fell on his radar, I don’t know. They usually contact those who’ve displayed Decepticon sympathies.”   
  
“Which I haven’t,” Prowl says, maybe a bit too quickly.   
  
“Did you reply?”   
  
“Of course not!” Prowl’s panels arch upward before he can master control of his emotions, and he cycles several ventilations. There hadn’t been accusation in Orion’s tone, merely curiosity.   
  
He pauses to regain his bearings.   
  
“I have yet to reply,” Prowl says. “The obvious answer would be to turn over the communication to my superior, but I doubt they’ll be able to trace it anywhere. Megatron is careful.”   
  
“Well, Soundwave is anyway,” Orion says with another drum of his fingertips on the desktop. His gaze tikts downward, pensive. Calculating almost.   
  
Soundwave? The designation sounds familiar. It rings at something in the back of Prowl’s processor, but he can’t put a finger on what exactly. He does note it, however. For later investigation.   
  
“This could also be an opportunity,” Prowl says, again watching Orion carefully. Is he Megatron’s ally? Enemy?   
  
Orion’s hand goes flat on the desk. “Did you come here because you want my advice on how to proceed?”   
  
Prowl allows his panels to drift downward, at rest, projecting submission and innocence as much as he’s capable. It won’t hold long, especially if Orion’s even glanced at Prowl’s service record, but it’s worth a try. “I wanted another perspective,” he says.   
  
The datastick with Megatron’s message sits heavy in his arm compartment. The debate about whether or not he should show it to Orion lasts for a second. The datastick stays right where it is.   
  
“I wanted to speak to someone who’s had contact with Megatron before,” Prowl continues. “Preferably of a nature that doesn’t immediately label him as terrorist or criminal.”   
  
The hint of a smile ghosts at the corner of Orion’s lips. “And did it help?”   
  
“I haven’t decided.” Prowl’s glances around the room, counting the trophies, feeling the weight of their expectations as they stare at the mech sitting behind the desk.   
  
Does Orion feel their judgment when he works on his reports? Does he bask in the gleam of their shining metals? Or does he pay them little notice, considering them little more than cheap baubles of little worth?   
  
Prowl shouldn’t dare to contemplate.   
  
He dips his head, takes a step back. “Thank you for your time. You’ve got my contact information if you wish for me to return the favor.”   
  
Orion pats his hand on the desk before he pulls himself to his feet. “You’ve caught the Chancellor Bracket case, yes?”   
  
Prowl cycles his optics, resists the urge to retreat. Ah. So Orion’s peeked at his service record after all. How enterprising of him. “Do you have some information that could help me solve it?”   
  
“Solve it,” Orion echoes, like he’s tasting the words. “I could have sworn the current theory blames the Decepticons.” He tilts his head, optics searching Prowl’s face. “Or perhaps I heard incorrectly.”   
  
Prowl works his jaw, and the twitch of his panel betrays his unease. “They are ill-informed. My investigation is still in the preliminary stages. Whatever rumors are floating about, I assure you, they are not my determination.”   
  
“I thought as much.” Orion’s optics twinkle. He sticks out his hand again, and Prowl eyes it like he might a live electrorod. “Feel free to contact me again. If I can be of help in any way.”   
  
Politeness forces Prowl’s hand forward. He shakes Orion’s, tries not to hate the helpful, polite, handsome, and perfect Enforcer standing in front of him. Tries not to be attracted, as he can’t help but be, to those who are terrible choices for him in every way.   
  
“I am at your disposal as well,” Prowl says, through his denta. He’s smiling, and Orion’s too good not to see that it’s strained.   
  
If it bothers Orion, he doesn’t let it show. It feels like a game, one with words and gestures, sussing one another out, but they aren’t even sure why yet.   
  
“Nice to meet you,” Orion says, squeezing his hand, not enough to hurt, more like he’s reminding Prowl of how strong he is.   
  
“Likewise,” Prowl replies, smiling.   
  
It doesn’t reach his optics.   
  


~

  
  
It’s not that he hates Orion. Far from it. He admires the other officer, admires what Orion Pax has accomplished, what he’s earned, the progress he’s made.   
  
But the resentment. It burns in his spark. It tastes sour at the back of his glossa, like purge after a night of overindulgence, not that Prowl has many of those.   
  
Everything Orion Pax has, Prowl will never receive. Not because he’s unworthy. Not because he hasn’t earned it. But because it’s not meant for mechs like him. He’s lucky he clawed his way out of the rank and file. It’s selfish to yearn for more.   
  
Prowl makes his way back to his own district, Orion’s words lingering in his processor, the other half of which is occupied with Chancellor Bracket’s murder. He can’t be distracted from his first priority, his job. He needs to log into his workstation, see if the forensics reports have been released yet. He needs to question witnesses, investigate Bracket’s office, his co-workers.   
  
He needs to not think about Megatron.   
  
Which of course is why his comm pings him half a cycle later, whilst he’s en route to Bracket’s spacious office, located within a business complex that could house at least ten percent of the city’s homeless population without straining resources at all.   
  
Prowl pulls out of the walkway and steps off to the side, all the better to focus on the conversation without interrupting the flow of traffic, because he recognizes the ident code. His spark thrums a faster beat, like it’s trying to crawl up into his intake.   
  
He leans against the wall of an alley and looks out into the passing crowds. He presses a finger to his comm to accept the call.   
  
“Prowl here,” he says, gruff, as if it’s just another ping and not a voice that keeps trying to shift his worldview, and succeeds so effortlessly.   
  
The chuckle rolling into his audial has no business rolling right along his sensor net, too. “I wasn’t sure if you’d answer or not,” Megatron says because who else could it be? Pinging Prowl from an unknown ident code with a home IP out near Slaughter City?  
  
Prowl works his intake. “Megatron,” he greets. He’s careful to keep his tone even. “What do you want?”   
  
“I would like to extend an invitation,” Megatron says as though Prowl’s tone had been polite and not borderline belligerent. “I assume you received my previous communication. I think it would be in both our benefit to meet.”  
  
“Do you now.” It’s a statement, not a question. Prowl’s gaze flicks out at the passing crowd, all hurrying by, heedless to the fact he’s an Enforcer carrying on what is quite possibly an illegal conversation with a terrorist. “That sounds dangerous.”   
  
Megatron laughs softly, and Prowl’s panels twitch. “I assure you, I mean you no harm. I simply want to have a conversation. And I will ensure your safety, if that’s what has you so concerned.”   
  
Prowl makes a non-committal noise. In Megatron’s defense, there is no ransom his superiors would pay. Prowl has no connections that could work in the Decepticons favor. They would gain nothing by killing him. They would gain nothing by taking him captive. He still debates whether they’d gain anything by recruiting him.   
  
“Where?” Prowl asks.   
  
“As it so happens, I have an engagement close to you within a few cycles,” Megatron says, and Prowl doubts this is a coincidence. “Soundwave will provide you with tickets to attend. We can meet afterward. I will personally guarantee your safety.”   
  
Prowl works his jaw. “I can take care of myself.”   
  
“Of course you can,” Megatron replies, his voice as smooth as high grade and as syrupy as coolant. “Think of it as more of a necessary precaution. I mean you no harm but the crowds around these events can be rough.”   
  
“I’m aware,” Prowl bites out. His spark performs a strange flip-flop in his chassis. “Very well.”   
  
“One chance,” Megatron all but purrs. “That’s all I’m asking. Afterward, if you wish I never contact you again, I won’t.”   
  
Prowl swallows over a lump in his intake. He already knows this won’t be the last time. He’s curious what Megatron wants from him, what the Decepticons are trying to accomplish, the truth behind the media lies. One meeting will not be enough to sate the curiosity. It won’t even scratch the surface of the questions he has.   
  
“That’s fair,” Prowl says and then internally curses himself. He wishes he’d had the foresight to record this conversation. Or at least make sure no one else is recording it either.   
  
He’s losing it.   
  
Megatron chuckles again, and Prowl surprises himself with how charming it sounds. No wonder mechs flock to his cause. It’s probably because they’re hoping to catch a private moment with their leader, hoping to hear his voice much closer than their vidscreens or the broadcasts.   
  
“I am glad to hear it,” he says. “You’ll get a message with the date and time shortly. I look forward to seeing you there.”   
  
He doesn’t wait for Prowl to reply. The lines goes silent. Prowl lowers his hand from his comm, disconnecting on his end as well.   
  
He works his jaw and stares blankly into the passing crowd. Hundreds of mechs look exhausted, worn down, optics dim, frame language harried. Those in alt-mode zoom by in the street or the airways. There’s a shuffling sound back in the dark of the alley. Prowl knows if he looks close enough, he’ll find the homeless, the near-empty, the vagrants.   
  
How many of them would be classified unneeded? How many of them were sparked for an occupation that no one needs, and they aren’t allowed to do anything else?   
  
How many of them only need to hear Megatron’s speeches to become another frame for his fighting force?   
  
Too many.   
  
Prowl pushes off the wall and rejoins the hustle and bustle.   
  
He still has a job to do. Chancellor Bracket has been murdered. It’s Prowl’s duty to find out who and why.   
  


~

  
  
Prowl is many things.   
  
One might consider his current decisions to be foolish. He recognizes that he is putting himself in harm’s way. He realizes there is something happening beyond his worldview. There are undercurrents, and he’s only a single wave in the midst of a storm.   
  
He refuses to be caught unprepared.   
  
He spends a day deep in Chancellor Bracket’s case. He builds a conspiracy web. He composes a suspect list of none, save that he knows the Decepticons don’t belong upon it. He hits several dead ends with wiped surveillance feeds and generic clues and a forensic team that tells him nothing but what he already knows.   
  
The invitation, the date, and the time all arrive by midday. Prowl’s researching at his modest cubicle in the main office when his mailbox chimes, and there’s a surge of excitement and anxiety both as the familiar sender pops up. He skims the notice quickly, committing it to memory. It reads like a standard event announcement. If anyone were to hack his account and read his mails, they’d find nothing unusual about it. Mechs commonly receive event invitations.   
  
The location is smack dab in the middle of a section of the city Enforcers dare not tread. At least, not by themselves and definitely not while proudly displaying their badges.   
  
Megatron might have assured his safety while in the arena. But there are a dozen ways Prowl could find himself killed on the way to it.   
  
He’s going to need help.   
  
Fortunately, he’s not without his contacts.   
  


***


	3. Chapter 3

Double Vision Body Shop is exactly what it says on the tin – to the average consumer at any rate. There are few who know that it’s actually a front for the black market dealings of one-half of the duo of owners.   
  
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Split-spark twins. Arrested multiple times for petty crimes. Origins unknown. In their youth, they bounced from halfway house to hostel, and Prowl can’t find any record of their sparking on any database. He suspects they were part of some Senate-sanctioned experiment on spark reproduction, but he hasn’t been able to find any proof.   
  
He’s lost count of the number of times he’s arrested them. The charges never stick mostly because Prowl never bothers to show up to prosecute, and Sideswipe is as slippery as hydraulic fluid.   
  
Instead, he’s made informants out of them.   
  
By now, they’ve helped him solve more cases than the crimes he’s caught them committing. They’re his dirty little secret in many ways because if he was as morally righteous as he claimed to be, he’d have tossed them in a cell and threw away the key.   
  
Sunstreaker is the processor, the hard work, and the beauty behind Double Vision. He’s the legitimacy while Sideswipe runs the underground network. But that isn’t the reason Prowl goes to them.   
  
They’re both pretty successful in their respective businesses. Their true earnings, what keeps them out of poverty and the hands of local law enforcement particularly greasy, is their interest in gladiator arenas. They’ve fought in a few of the lower cards and won. They are not as well known as Megatron.   
  
There’s no doubt in Prowl’s mind, however, that they’ll bite and claw and slash their way to the top. As far as they can make it.   
  
Double Vision Bodyshop’s hours are by appointment only. Sunstreaker’s work is valued enough he can get away with it. The doors open by a push, and a cheerful bell announces Prowl’s arrival. The lobby is empty of both customer and proprietor, but Sideswipe emerges from a backroom with a smile. He’s got his business grin on, but it widens into something more friendly when he spots Prowl.   
  
“Well, well, well, look what the turbofox drug in,” Sideswipe says. He’s wiping his fingers clean, perhaps he’d been assisting Sunstreaker. “Is this business or pleasure, Prowl?”   
  
“Neither.” Prowl casts a quick glance around, but Sideswipe’s too good to let any evidence of illegal activity loiter in plain sight. “It’s something of a personal nature.”   
  
Amber optics glimmer with interest. “That so.” Sideswipe rolls a bright red shoulder and beckons for Prowl to follow him. “Come into the back then. Wouldn’t want any of our customers to get the wrong idea. You know, with an Enforcer loitering around.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
Prowl slides behind the counter and follows Sideswipe into the back room, opposite of where he can faintly hear the noise of an air brush in operation. Sunstreaker must be tending to a customer at the moment.   
  
The back office is at odds with itself, both organized and in visible disarray. There are two desk on opposite sides of the room, and Prowl can tell at a glance which desk belongs to who. So he’s not surprised when Sideswipe kicks back behind the messier of the two, crossing his legs at the ankles on top of a stack of datapads and folding his arms behind his head.   
  
“Have a seat,” he says with a bright grin. “My office is your office. Yada yada yada.” His feet wriggle. “What can I do ya for?”   
  
Prowl picks up a crate of unidentifiable objects and sets it aside before he perches on the only available chair. “I need information.”   
  
“Per the usual.” Sideswipe tilts his head and twirls one hand around on the wrist. “Be more specific.”   
  
“What do you know of the Decepticons?”   
  
Sideswipe’s lips curl into a careful smirk. “Nothing more than the news feeds us,” he says, but there’s something reserved in his words. “And that they apparently killed some high muckety-muck that us here at the bottom couldn’t give a slag about.”   
  
“They aren’t responsible for Chancellor Bracket’s murder,” Prowl says, almost on automatic, though he doesn’t even know why he’s defending the Decepticons so strongly. “And Megatron?”   
  
“What about him?” Sideswipe asks, innocent.   
  
“Ever met him?”   
  
“Nope. Can’t say I have.”   
  
“Watched him fight?”   
  
Sideswipe’s glossa flicks over his lips. “Well, watching a bout is quite different from meeting in person, you know.” His hands fold over his abdomen. His ankles uncross and recross. “There a point to this, Prowl? Or are you just digging?”   
  
Prowl sighs. “There’s a point.” He rubs at his chevron, a tightness coiling inside of his chassis, behind his spark. “To make a long, complicated story short, I need to attend a fight later this week. In the Devos sector.”   
  
Sideswipe stares at him. “Uh, you’re aware that would be suicide. For someone like you I mean.” His gaze flicks pointedly to Prowl’s paint, to the marks on his sensory panels, to everything that he is. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”   
  
“I intend to avoid that outcome actually,” Prowl says with a snort. He folds his arms under his bumper, aware that it makes him seem defensive, but it’s always been an unusual case that he can let his guard down around the twins. “I came to you specifically for that reason.”   
  
Sideswipe groans and his head tilts back. “Primus on a pogostick, you’re going to ask for a favor,” he states rather than asks. “What’s so important you’re willing to risk yourself and us, if I may point out, just to get to a fight?”   
  
Prowl works his jaw, decides for honesty. What it says about him, that he trusts these two criminals more than his fellow Enforcers, Prowl cannot guess. “Megatron has contacted me,” he says. “I’m just curious enough to find out why.”   
  
Sideswipe stares at him. His mouth opens, closes. His feet hit the floor as he straightens and his palms flatten on the desktop.   
  
“Prowl,” he says, completely serious now. All trace of his previously playful tone has gone. “Please tell me you’re not single-handedly trying to bring down the Decepticon movement.”   
  
His lips twitch. He tries not to smile. “I haven’t decided yet,” he replies, just to watch the horror dance across Sideswipe’s face before he amends with, “For now, Megatron has extended me an invitation, and I’m inclined to see what offer he has.”   
  
Sideswipe brings his hands together, presses them palm to palm, and then the tips of his fingers rest against his lips. He stares at Prowl for a long, long moment until finally he says, “What do you need us to do?”   
  
“Get me inside, preferably without getting killed,” Prowl says. An ex-vent eases out of him and tension evaporates from his cables. “I know you’re sneaky, both of you. I know you can do it.”   
  
Sideswipe nods slowly. His fingers still hide his mouth. “And what do we get in return?”   
  
“You mean other than the general blind optic I give you?” Prowl sits back, flattening his sensory panels against the broad planes of the chair behind him. “Name your price.”   
  
Amber optics glimmer with mischief. He lowers his hands, but sweeps his palms over his head. “We have a friend,” he says carefully, like he’s picking and choosing each glyph for precision. “Might have found himself into a bit of mischief, as it were. He doesn’t deserve the sentence they gave him.”   
  
Prowl raises an orbital ridge.   
  
“Hundred years manual labor,” Sideswipe clarifies. “For peddling stolen goods.”   
  
Yes, that is more than a little extreme.   
  
“He’s a first-time offender, Prowl,” Sideswipe continues, and he whuffs a ventilation, suddenly looking tired and much older than his usual geniality shows. “He’s just a newspark who got in over his head, and they’re making an example of him because they can. Now, I know you can’t get the charges dropped, but if you could, I dunno, ease his sentence or something, that’d be fair.”   
  
Prowl scrubs hard at his chevron. “Yes,” he finally says. He has a few strings he can pull, a few mecha who owe him enough favor he can certainly reduce the sentence of a first offender. He knows better than to make an outright promise, however. “I will do what I can. Will that suffice?”   
  
“You’re lucky I trust you,” Sideswipe says, and he rockets to his feet. He swivels around the desk and loiters in the doorway of his office, leaning out into the main area to shout, “Yo, Sunny! Office! We got a customer!”   
  
Faintly, Prowl hears the reply, “In a minute!”   
  
Sideswipe ducks back inside, grin stretching his mouth wide. “He’ll kill me if I don’t let him decide how we’re going to do this.”   
  
“Do what?” Prowl asks.   
  
Sideswipe winks. “Give you a whole new look.”   
  
“A whole new-- Sideswipe, that’s ridiculous,” Prowl protests.   
  
Sideswipe kicks back behind his desk again, looking as smug as a turbocat which caught the metallocanary. “Look, Prowl. Thing is, you walk, talk and sound like an Enforcer. At the very least, we gotta make you look less like one, since there’s little we can do for the rest. And if that means you get the most garish paint job this side of Praxus, so be it.”   
  
“No one leaves this place looking garish if I can help it.”   
  
Prowl swivels the chair back toward the door as Sunstreaker steps through it, a towel slung over one shoulder and fingers flicking a visor up away from his optics. A few spatters of some metallic paint fleck the apron covering the majority of his chassis.   
  
Sunstreaker grins. “Hey, Prowl,” he says. “You the customer?”   
  
“In a manner of speaking.” Prowl tilts his head in greeting. “I’d be honored to receive a design by you.”   
  
Sunstreaker’s gaze flicks over him, top to bottom, as if assessing and measuring in a single glance. He finds his brother across Prowl’s head.   
  
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I can do something about that. Sides?”   
  
Sideswipe claps his hands together. “This is going to be fun.”   
  


~

  
  
The paint is supposed to be temporary. All Prowl has to do is use the solvent in his subspace, and he’ll be back to his usual colors within a washrack cycle.   
  
For now, however, he’s a mix of navy blue, gold, and silver that Sunstreaker swears looks good on him. His Enforcer markings are buried beneath the darker paint, and even his chevron has seen a makeover. He’d looked in the mirror and hadn’t recognized himself.   
  
“You look great, if I do say so myself,” Sunstreaker says from Prowl’s left side, his arm threaded through Prowl’s as though escorting him.   
  
“Extremely fraggable,” Sideswipe agrees from Prowl’s other side. He, too, has an arm, and Prowl is sandwiched between them.   
  
He feels like a protected, escorted date. It would be ludicrous even if it weren’t for the fact they are within a stone’s throw of the arena, and given the attention they’ve drawn so far, Prowl is quite sure he wouldn’t have made it this far without them. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are well known, well respected, and in many instances, quite feared.   
  
No one dares look twice at Prowl. He sees the appreciative glances. The wondering looks. Those perhaps curious as to whom had caught the attention of the infamous twins this time around.   
  
The looks don’t linger. Or if they do, it’s subtly, in secret. Prowl’s back armor crawls. Tension coils inside of him, and his defensive protocols linger at a light simmer. Danger lurks around every corner, and it’s only the presence of two criminals at his side that keep the villainous at bay.   
  
“Sideswipe is right.” Sunstreaker leans back and takes a long, appreciative look at Prowl’s aft. “I wouldn’t kick you out of our berth if I found you in it.”   
  
“Thanks,” Prowl says without any sincerity.   
  
Sideswipe chuckles and leans heavily against Prowl’s side, his head resting on Prowl’s shoulder. “You know you’d have a good time with us. Time of your life even. A night you’d never forget.” His voice dips into a low purr, one Prowl admits does resonate and form a tight ball of fire in his belly.   
  
It’s there and gone just as quick, however. As attractive as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe might be, Prowl has never viewed them as a romantic or sexual partner. There are times he even hesitates to call them friend.   
  
“I’ll simply have to do without the memory,” Prowl replies, careful to keep his tone warm. “Though the offer is appreciated.”   
  
Sunstreaker snorts. “That’s the nicest ‘frag off’ I’ve ever heard.”   
  
“I have practice,” Prowl says.   
  
Sideswipe laughs.   
  
The arena gates loom in front of them. They haven’t yet been caught by the tide of spectators streaming toward the entrance, but it’s a sure thing. The cacophony of creaks and hisses and clatters of ill-maintained frames is matched only by the stench of them – the unwashed, the rusty, those who reek of high grade and Nox and other illegal substances.   
  
These are the nameless masses who form the faceless crowds. Who pack the balconies and the stands and the bleachers. The rich are already seated, Prowl knows, in their fancy boxes with personal attendants. Enclosed spaces to keep the stench of the poor and barely surviving out of their rich olfactory sensors.   
  
Prowl wonders if this resentment boiling within him is a new thing, or if it’s always been there, festering like an untreated rust infection.   
  
There’s a long line for those still needing to purchase tickets. The arena itself practically throbs from the noise behind its walls. The vibrations of some kind of loud, pulsing music comes through the pads of his feet. Every once in a while, he catches a whiff of spilled energon and spilled engex.   
  
His tank churns.   
  
“So you’re paying for our tickets, right?” Sideswipe asks as he leans in to Prowl’s side, head tucked in against his like they are lovers. His lips brush Prowl’s audials, words a warm puff against it. “I mean, since we’re doing you a favor and all.”   
  
“That will not be necessary.”   
  
Prowl’s not sure who has the most outrageous reaction. Sunstreaker, who growls and whips around with a knife appearing from seemingly nowhere. Sideswipe, who pulls Prowl against him like he’s a civilian in need of defense. Or Prowl, who goes stiff all over, sensory panels rigidly whapping both twins in the shoulder and nearly sending them to the ground.   
  
It would be comical if it weren’t for the gravity of the situation.   
  
Standing behind them is a mech Prowl should recognize in theory. Visored, masked, tall and broad – he’s a dark blue with a transteel forward-facing dock – a carrier mech. An avian cassette – red and black – perches on one shoulder, opposite of a large shoulder-mounted cannon of unknown make.   
  
“Soundwave,” Sideswipe greets, his tone as cold as liquid nitrogen, and his hand tightening where it lingers on Prowl’s shoulder. “Always a pleasure.”   
  
Soundwave’s visor flashes crimson. “Sideswipe. Sunstreaker,” he intones. “Prowl’s safety mine to ensure.”   
  
“Right. Because you’re the trustworthy type,” Sunstreaker says and his shoulder bumps Prowl’s, his field giving a quick flashfire of tension.   
  
Prowl eases out from between them. “I assume Megatron sent you?” He sets aside the two tense and angry twins for a moment.   
  
“Affirmative,” Soundwave replies as Sideswipe says, “He’s only Megatron’s favorite lackey. Of course he did.” It’s accompanied by a sneer.   
  
Prowl senses history. It’s something to ask the twins about later. Preferably not in front of Soundwave. Prowl doesn’t know much about Megatron’s right-hand, but he’s heard several rumors that Soundwave has talents extending into the supernatural. Unsubstantiated rumors, mind, but sometimes those are the ones to hold the most truth.   
  
Soundwave holds out hand, offering two cred-tickets in his palm. “Free attendance with gratitude,” he says, and his gaze shifts to Prowl. “Time is short.”  
  
Sideswipe snatches the tickets with a scowl. “If you break my favorite Enforcer, I’ll find a way to end you.”   
  
Sunstreaker stands next to Sideswipe, broader and angrier, like a great, gold weapon. “Megatron’s not the only heavyweight around here.”   
  
“Understood.” Soundwave turns to walk away, the cassette on his shoulder giving a loud squawk of condescension. “Come.”   
  
A part of Prowl bristles at the obvious command. It is the curious side of him which swallows it down.   
  
For now.   
  
There will be time to address manners later.   
  
“I’ll contact you after the match,” he tells the twins.   
  
“Watch yourself,” Sunstreaker says. He grips Prowl’s shoulder like a silent promise to wreak vengeance should he need it.   
  
“Stay close to Soundwave,” Sideswipe adds. He looks past Prowl, giving the Decepticon a hard look, but if it fazes Soundwave, he doesn’t show it.   
  
It’s a curious addition. Prowl understands it nonetheless. The watchful optics fall back on him as he drifts out of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s sphere of influence. It isn’t until he falls in step with Soundwave that the weight of attention abruptly lifts. No one meets his optics. No one’s stare lingers.   
  
No, that is untrue.   
  
The avian cassette has yet to look away from Prowl. Those small, crimson optics focus on him with laser precision. The head cocks to the side, wings tucked against the long length of a back.   
  
There is something unnerving in the stare.   
  
Prowl pays better attention to their surroundings instead. Soundwave leads him not to the main gate and the crush of the crowd, but off to the side, to a smaller entrance. It, too, is guarded, but the two mechs merely nod at Soundwave and step aside, gesturing them through.   
  
He expects a dark, grimy hallway with miscreants lurking in the shadows, rust and spilled energon streaked across the floor, and the distant sound of screaming. Instead, what he finds is a bare, dimly lit corridor that best resembles an industrial warehouse with leaking, rattling pipes and the occasional gouge of heavy machinery. There’s no spilled fluids, and all the rust is gathered around the leaks.   
  
There’s no screaming, save for the roar of the crowd beyond, and the hall reeks of mildew and must.   
  
“I must be quite important,” Prowl says, to fill the silence, “for Megatron to send someone like you fetch me.”   
  
Soundwave doesn’t pause, but his cassette swivels around and stares at Prowl from Soundwave’s shoulder. “Perspective defines importance,” Soundwave says.   
  
“You do realize I am not important in the grand scheme of anything,” Prowl says, drawing his orbital ridge down. “You’ll receive no ransom for me. I know nothing of city or state secrets. I am of little use to your cause.”   
  
“Use to be determined,” Soundwave says as they round a corner to a rampwell and start to climb up and up, passing level by level.   
  
Beyond closed doors on each level, Prowl’s audials vibrate with the clamor of thousands of mechs crammed in a space too small. There’s a voice over a loudspeaker, but he can’t make out the words.   
  
“And what happens if I’m not useful enough?” Prowl asks as they hit the highest level. There’s no more ramp, just Soundwave standing at the door marked ‘No Unauthorized Entry’, his palm resting on the energy reader.   
  
The door clicks open, and the noise of the arena slams into Prowl as though it has physical weight. His sensory panels shiver, crowd hard against his backstrut, and he has to perform an emergency dial-down before the overstimulation knocks him out. As it is, he’s immediately swamped by a headache.   
  
Prowl cringes and fights the urge to run away from it. He won’t get any answers by being a coward.   
  
He steps onto a small balcony, meant to seat less than a half-dozen mechs of average size. There’s no one else present, and Prowl is instantly glad for the solitude. Excluding Soundwave, who follows Prowl inside and shuts the door behind them. The beep of it locking is nearly inaudible over the noise.   
  
Prowl edges to the balcony rail and peers over it. From here, he can see the entire arena. He has a perfect view of the three large vidscreens all of which provide closeups of the battle currently underway in the middle of the paved floor. Here is where all the grunge resides.   
  
The floor is spattered with fluids and bits of mech and the evidence of brutal engagements. The two mechs fight as though their sparks are on the line, and perhaps they are. Prowl’s heard rumors about the undercards. They tend to be fights to the death depending on where one fell in the ranks. If one survived long enough to gain notoriety, then one earned the right of mercy.   
  
It’s an odd way to run one’s business, but who is Prowl to judge.   
  
He takes a seat closest to the balcony and does what he does best: he observes. He takes in the crowds, the faces, all of them unfamiliar, a sea of color, of poverty, of desperation. He expects a wave of Decepticon brands, but either the Decepticons present aren’t brave enough to reveal themselves, or there are few in attendance.   
  
These patrons are regular mechs. Have always been regular mechs. Megatron recruits regular mechs. He’s building an army out of the dregs, the abandoned, the angry, the overlooked. He’s taking in those every else abandons.   
  
Considering that the majority of Cybertron can classify itself as one of the above, Prowl wonders if the elite, the Senate and the Prime and the leadership, even realize annihilation is closer than they think.   
  
Megatron can overpower them with sheer numbers alone. All he has to do is make these mechs believe in the impossible.   
  
He’s already well on his way.   
  
Prowl settles into his chair. He’s here to learn something. Megatron expects him to walk away from this experience with a lesson. Prowl doubts it’ll be the one Megatron wants.   
  
It’ll be interesting all the same.   
  


~

  
  
_He’s here._    
  
That’s the single, clipped sentence Soundwave transmits before Megatron strides into the arena, ready to face his chosen opponent of the evening. A thrill of excitement chases a flurry of unease up Megatron’s spinal strut, until the anxiety evaporates and only the exhilaration remains.   
  
Megatron resists the urge to track his gaze up to the reserved balcony where Soundwave and Prowl are located. There’s no reason to be this giddy. Prowl is one of many recruits Megatron hopes to entice. There’s nothing special about him.   
  
He focuses instead on his opponent. A triple-changer. A disgraced soldier. Dishonorably discharged and with an axe to grind against the establishment, against other mechs, against the universe in general. Crucible is large and angry, but it’s a cold anger. The kind of anger that burns like a fire and keeps one focused, rather than irrational.   
  
Crucible has a dual-bladed axe in one hand, a shield in the other. Rotors fan out from his back like mini-swords, and Megatron knows Crucible has a habit of yanking them off and throwing them like daggers.   
  
Fortunately, he’s prepared. Megatron knows all of Crucible’s tactics. He doesn’t fear the ex-soldier. Crucible has height on him. Reach. Training. To ask the bookies, Megatron is the undercard. No one expects him to win.   
  
He’s going to anyway.   
  
They’re announced. The crowd breaks out into such a noise, it rattles through Megatron’s feet. He’s used to it by now. It’s no longer a distraction.   
  
Crucible smirks at him. Licks his lips like he’s imagining the taste of Megatron’s energon spraying in the air. He doesn’t like Megatron or the Decepticons, and he’s made no secret of it. He’s the Senate’s disgraced pet, looking to kill his way back into their good graces.   
  
He won’t succeed.   
  
The chronometer overhead ticks down the kliks. For a moment, Megatron is weak. He glances up into the stands, up and up to the safest balcony, where Soundwave guards his newest potential recruit. He swears, even across the distance, he catches the ice-brightness of Prowl’s optics.   
  
The bell shrills.   
  
Crucible grins with a mouthful of purposefully sharpened denta, a mimicry of a wild beast.   
  
Megatron hefts his blade and feels the echoes of manic battle sing in his spark.   
  


~


	4. Chapter 4

Prowl’s not one for playing games.   
  
Some of the younger Enforcers do, he knows. Those who like to gather together in groups and chat and laugh. The ones who still flock to the clubs or the race tracks. The ones sparked into their roles and are content in it.   
  
He’s passed the arcades. He’s seen them packed, older mechs gravitating toward the hologames where they can escape from reality until their credchips run dry. Newer sparked mechs lingering around the games for dexterity, skill, quick thinking. Racers practice on these systems, too.   
  
It doesn’t help to tilt one’s body with the controller, but these players try. They lean forward and back. They press harder on the buttons, pulse harder across the cables. They shout at the screen as though it’ll effect the outcome.   
  
It’s irrational and unhelpful and foolish.   
  
Right now, Prowl can sympathize with them.   
  
He cringes with every blow. He tilts and leans and clamps his hands on his knees to resist the urge to echo the swing of the axe, the lift of the shield, the spins and dodges, the crash and clatter of weapon against armor.   
  
Megatron’s opponent is large. Trained. There’s something familiar in his style. Something institutional. Prowl doesn’t recognize the other gladiator, not his face nor his designation, but he’s still somehow familiar.   
  
Megatron is smaller. He was once a miner. He doesn’t have the sparked instincts of a warrior. But he’s holding his own. He uses his size to his advantage. His speed. Crucible makes large, heavy blows. Megatron has marked him multiple times already, in multiple key points.   
  
Hydraulic fluid dribbles from nicked lines. Energon streaks over dusky red armor. Crucible’s optics are dark with rage, lips peeled back over his denta. The ground itself is pockmarked with strikes which missed Megatron.   
  
Prowl watches, enraptured, ventilations caught. He understands the thrill of it now. Why mechs throw their creds at such a thing. It’s barbaric, but it’s fascinating.   
  
Megatron is not untouched. He’d had to yank one of Crucible’s throwing daggers out of his lower back earlier, and energon dribbles in a steady stream from the wound. His armor is dented, and he favors his left leg. But he holds strong.   
  
He’s going to win. Prowl is sure of it.  
  
Crucible bellows in rage. He rushes at Megatron, yanking one of his rotors free to use as a weapon, throwing himself with all the recklessness he can spare.   
  
Megatron holds his ground. He looks up at the mech nearly twice his size, and he spits a glob of bloody lubricant to the ground.   
  
They clash, a flurry of dust rising around them. Something shrieks. Energon spatters across the floor. Crucible’s rotor spins away, impacting one of the surrounding walls, sheared in half. A strut-rattling boom finds Crucible slamming into the arena floor.   
  
He spins, hands scrabbling, manages to get to hands and knees. One cracked optic flickers intermittently. He freezes, energon dripping from multiple wounds, favoring an arm.   
  
Megatron holds the tip of his blade to Crucible’s intake, a symbolic gesture as a neck wound is hardly the worst. He stands over Crucible, taller and stronger in this moment.   
  
“Yield,” he demands, and Prowl doesn’t know if he’s micced or if Megatron’s voice simply carries that well, but Prowl can hear him clearly, even up in the balcony.   
  
Crucible sneers. “To the likes of you?” There must be mikes, because Crucible’s labored vents, the gravel in his vocals, carry through the auditoritium.   
  
The vidscreens zoom in on their confrontation, and their voices become even clearer. The sneer on Crucible’s lips. The patient pity on Megatron’s. The heaving of their vents. The drip-drip of energon on the dusty, stained floor.   
  
“The likes of me,” Megatron repeats, and there’s nothing but curiosity in his tone. He tilts his head. The tip of his blade taps the underside of Crucible’s chin. “You hate me not because I’ve wronged you, but because you were told I am wrong.”   
  
Fury dances in Crucible’s functional optic.   
  
Megatron tilts his gaze down. “I fight for you,” he says. “Can you not see the truth of it? The Senate sent you here to be slaughtered. They gave you a false hope. Even if you’d struck the final blow, do you believe they’d have given you what they promised?”   
  
Crucible falters. The loathing burns brighter, but it’s not all aimed at Megatron. Prowl leans forward, captivated by the interplay, and it isn’t until the warning dances at the back of his processor that he realizes he’s held his vents.   
  
“Are you trying to recruit me now?” Crucible laughs. His hands fold in and out of fists.   
  
No. Only one of them does. The other is reaching back slowly, slowly, for the rotors that Prowl knows carry throwing daggers.   
  
“I’m giving you a chance,” Megatron says. “An opportunity. To cast aside the fetters they’ve placed on you and fight for yourself.”   
  
Prowl’s spark leaps into his intake. His fingers curl into claws around the arm of his chair.   
  
Crucible barks a laugh. “That’s cute,” he says. His optics flash.   
  
Crucible snatches the dagger and lunges at Megatron, but the former miner sidesteps the lunge, smacks the dagger from Crucible’s hands, and slams the hilt of his blade into the back of Crucible’s head. He hits a sensor nexus or something similar, because there’s a sickening crunch before Crucible drops with a low thud and a puff of dust. His biolights flicker, but don’t fade.   
  
He’s still alive.   
  
Megatron rests the tip of his sword on Crucible’s back, and it’s no coincidence that it hovers over Crucible’s spark. Curls of paint rise in the wake of the slow spin of the blade.   
  
Megatron looks up, into the cameras, and they broadcast the feed to every vidscreen, until it feels like Megatron is catching the optic of every spectator. The cheering is muted, if present at all. Instead, there’s an expectant silence.   
  
An awe, if Prowl has to put a word to it.   
  
“Welcome to the Cage,” Megatron says, and it’s clear he’s addressing the crowd. “We all know why we’re here. You know. I know. He knows.” At this, the blade digs a bit deeper, though Crucible doesn’t stir. “And still, we are all being deceived.”   
  
Megatron’s infamous phrase. Here, it seems to fill the arena with charge. With expectation. Prowl leans forward as though he needs to hear better, nearly toppling from his seat. He looks down into the crowd and sees enraptured faces, canting toward the arena floor, leaning into Megatron’s words like a Praxian crystal tilts toward the light of Luna-1.   
  
“Crucible was sent to do what the Senate is too afraid to try on their own,” Megatron continues. “He was sent to kill me. To silence me. Our oppressors fear our strength. They fear change that doesn’t benefit them. They fear us.”   
  
A ripple of agreement races through the crowd. Energy fields add to the din. Prowl watches this, something unsettling curling in his belly. The power Megatron has over these mechs is terrifying.   
  
Inspiring.   
  
“We outnumber our oppressors. We have voices and we deserve to be heard. They hold power over us not because they’ve earned it, but because they’ve stolen it. They use us, they abandon us, they… discard us.” In the pause between the last two words, Megatron taps the flat of his blade against Crucible’s back.   
  
“They would have me slaughter, to prove I am nothing but a murderer, that my cause is only that of criminals, of thieves, of killers all trying to justify the laws they break.”   
  
Megatron pauses, and he tilts his head, and his expression is grave, serious. It doesn’t patronize, it promises.   
  
“We are more powerful than we can possibly imagine. If we unite, we can seize our freedom, we can become more than they allow us.”   
  
Megatron lifts his blade and sheathes it, a quiet whisper of metal on metal that is frighteningly audible.   
  
“We were not sparked to serve the interests of our captors.” Megatron steps back, removes his foot from Crucible’s back. “We were sparked to live, to love, to build our own futures. We do have a choice. And it’s time we reclaimed it.”   
  
He pauses, theatrically if one asks Prowl, to look back at Crucible. There’s something unreadable in his expression before he turns away and strides toward what Prowl assumes to be the exit.   
  
Silence reigns for the space of a single sparkbeat before the arena erupts into cheers and shouts, feet stamping, hands clapping, whistles screeching through the air. Prowl rises, stares down at the arena floor as mechs rush in to tend to Crucible and a chant starts up in the crowd. It’s a confusing melange of noise, but out of it all, he can pick up Megatron’s designation clearly.   
  
Perhaps the Senate is right to be afraid.   
  
Prowl turns away from the arena and finds Soundwave staring at him, his expression inscrutable. The avian cassette is gone from his shoulder, perhaps docked.   
  
“Take me to him,” Prowl says.   
  
Soundwave nods.   
  


~

  
  
“I know you know better than this, kid,” Wrench says as he slaps static mesh over Megatron’s wound with a complete lack of delicacy. “Stop letting them get cheap shots in.”   
  
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Megatron retorts.   
  
Wrench snorts and mechhandles Megatron into a better position to reach the dagger wound in his back. He’d yanked it out, but the tip lingered, and Megatron can feel the sharp metal biting into a hydraulic line.   
  
“Like the Pit it wasn’t. I know my fights. You hold back because you don’t want them to know how strong you are.” Wrench shoves in a thin-tipped forcep and yanks out the dagger tip.   
  
Megatron hisses air through clenched denta. His fingers dig into the edge of the berth currently serving as the only thing keeping him on his feet.   
  
“Wouldn’t you?”   
  
“Not at the expense of this.” Wrench thrusts the energon and hydraulic-fluid stained piece of shrapnel into view. “Inches from your iliac, this was. You’d’ve bled out in seconds.”   
  
Megatron plucks the shrapnel and tosses it to the floor. “But I didn’t.”   
  
“You got lucky.”   
  
“It was a calculated risk.”   
  
The freezing spray of sealant makes Megatron grit his denta as ice-cold lances through his torso. “Stupid,” Wrench mutters.   
  
Megatron’s door pings before he can form a retort. At the same time, his comm chimes with reassurance.   
  
He straightens and waves Wrench off. “Enough. I have business.”   
  
“I’ll say when it’s enough,” Wrench snaps and mechhandles him back into place. “Any business you let into your personal suite is business that can handle seeing you get patched up.” There’s warning in his tone, and Megatron ventilates rather than argue.   
  
He sends Soundwave a confirming ping and half-turns, watching as the door opens, his third striding inside first, but Prowl at his heelstruts. Or at least, Megatron assumes it to be Prowl. The gait is the same, and the way he carries himself, but he’s had a change in paint since the last picture Megatron had seen.   
  
It’s not unpleasant, but it doesn’t suit him.   
  
“Prowl,” Megatron greets. “Thank you for coming. Have a seat.”   
  
“I prefer to stand, if it’s all the same to you,” Prowl replies. He barely moves, but his optics search the room, no doubt taking note of every detail. He hasn’t decided if Megatron is a threat yet.   
  
There’s still room to change his mind.   
  
Wrench slaps a bandage over the gash in Megatron’s back, and the noise of it slices through the rising tension.   
  
“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Megatron says. He glances at Soundwave, standing behind Prowl and guarding the door, but Soundwave shakes his head.   
  
No observations then.   
  
“Were you entertained?” Megatron asks.   
  
Prowl lifts an orbital ridge. “I am still trying to decide if what I saw was real or a very clever show for the masses you’re trying to recruit.”   
  
Hm. Not one to pull his punches, is he? He’s not unlike Starscream in that regard. Which is good. Very good. Megatron needs more intelligence and confidence on his side. He has enough brute force. He needs finesse.   
  
Wrench finishes and pats Megatron on the back, a non-verbal cue. He gives Megatron room to turn completely, but says nothing. He’s watching Prowl though.   
  
Good. Megatron wants to hear his opinion later. Wrench is one of the most respected mechs in the gladiator circuit. Earning his trust has gained Megatron far more allies than he could have gathered on his own.   
  
“It’s both,” Megatron says as he accepts the damp meshcloth Wrench hands him and starts wiping at his frame, perhaps in vain given that what he needs is an hour-long wash in the racks.   
  
Prowl snorts and folds his arms under his bumper. “It can’t be both.”   
  
“Can’t it?” Megatron arches an orbital ridge and focuses on the splatter of energon across his chestplate. “Crucible was sent here to put me in my place. His defeat was very real. But the fact that I fight, that is a show. It is advertisement.”   
  
“For…?”   
  
Megatron tosses the soiled cloth into the wastebin and spreads his hands. “I’m recruiting, obviously.” He rummages through a cabinet for energon, which brings him closer to Prowl, close enough to smell the clean on him. “Mechs are frightened, they are without hope. They need to see that I can protect them, that I am willing to fight for them, and that I am capable of it as well.”  
  
He pulls out a cube of midgrade for himself, and something for Prowl. It still has the factory seal, unlike his own, and he watches Prowl inspect it thoroughly before nodding his gratitude.   
  
“You didn’t kill Crucible,” Prowl comments as he pops open the cube and swirls the contents around.   
  
Megatron tips his head. “Mercy can be an effective teacher. I don’t have to kill, contrary to what the Senate, the Council, and all of our owners claim. I only do that which is necessary.” He sips at his energon, swallowing the grimace of distaste.   
  
The energon is not pleasant, it’s necessary. Closer to medgrade, only not because medgrade isn’t as easily available as the average mech thinks. Only the truly elite have access to pure, flavored energon. Megatron has spent many a night not recharging, fantasizing what flavor truly means.   
  
Prowl makes a noncommittal noise. He sips politely at his energon, his optics performing another cursory glance around the suite. “You sound as though you believe your own publicity.”   
  
“It’s not mere publicity,” Megatron says.   
  
Behind him, Wrench snorts and noisily rifles through his medkit. His work here is done, but Wrench has always been nosy. And perhaps a bit more involved with the Decepticons than he’s ready to admit.   
  
Wrench is another Megatron has been determined to recruit to his cause. Befriending the medic is only the first step in ensuring Wrench’s loyalty.   
  
“Isn’t it?” Prowl’s sensory panels flick, a barely there motion, perhaps in response to the cacophony of movement and noise beyond their little bubble of calm. “You fight in a gladiator’s arena, and something tells me, you don’t pay the bills here.”   
  
A surge of anger bubbles up in Megatron before he can swallow it. Prowl has no awareness of the politics here, no idea the compromises Megatron has had to make. He’s always been a free mech, frame restrictions aside. He doesn’t know what it is to claw out of the dark, the death, the hole.   
  
The anger bursts, and Megatron loosens his grip around his cube. He cycles a ventilation because that is the crux of the matter.   
  
Prowl doesn’t know so he can’t possibly understand. He needs to be shown.   
  
“You think I am a hypocrite,” Megatron observes. He forces his fingers to loosen around the cube. “And maybe you’re not wrong. This particular arena is owned by Senator Ratbat, and yes, he sponsors the fights. Of course it nets him a tidy profit, but let’s not split cables.”   
  
Prowl stares at him and slowly sets down the cube. “You work for Senator Ratbat?”   
  
“There are timess when choices must be made, and sometimes, they aren’t much of a choice at all.” Megatron tilts his head toward Soundwave behind Prowl. “While Ratbat is my patron, he also owns Soundwave’s contract. He is tied to our lives in ways that aren’t easily undone.”   
  
Prowl’s optics narrow. He half-turns to look at Soundwave. “Why?”   
  
Soundwave stirs, his engine rumbling a dark noise of discontent. “Leverage,” he says and a single hand touches his dock, behind which his cassettes rest.   
  
“Life,” Megatron says, “Is not as black and white as that academy would lead you to believe. We do what we can, what we must, and make the best choices with the options given. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t still fighting.”   
  
He gestures to the arena as a whole and drains the last of his energon. “I can use him just as well as he uses me, and when we’re through, the senator will get what he deserves.”   
  
Wrench snorts and claps Megatron on the shoulder. “Kid, slag like that is what gets others to start thinking you’re a crazy killer. You can’t just threaten a senator in front of an enforcer. They don’t take too kindly to it.”   
  
“I didn’t threaten,” Megatron corrects. “I merely hinted to the possibility of consequences.” He shifts his gaze, meeting Prowl’s. “One doesn’t spend his fortune enslaving mechs and walk away from it unscathed.”   
  
“Fair enough,” Wrench says, and he must be watching Prowl, too. His tone is far too flippant for the subject matter. He pats Megatron on the shoulder again and hefts his portable medkit. “Well, I’d best be going. You aren’t the only idiot gladiator I gotta patch tonight.”   
  
“Just your favorite,” Megatron says.   
  
Wrench barks a laugh and excuses himself, the door clicking shut, locked behind him. In his absence, the tension in the room seems to ratchet up another notch.   
  
“Speaking of grey areas,” Megatron says, addressing Prowl again. “Your friends are not unfamiliar to me. I’ve seen them here, fighting in the undercards. By your black and white view, should they not both be behind bars?”   
  
Prowl’s jaw sets. His sensory panels flick before stiffening as though carved from stone. “It is not so simple,” he says, and there’s a tightness to his tone. Protective of the twins, perhaps? Are they more than mere informants?   
  
A question for Soundwave to answer later.   
  
“It never is.” Megatron manages a smile, thin though it is. He’s under no illusions that he can convince Prowl here in this moment.   
  
All he can do is set out the clues, leave a trail for the brilliant detective to follow, let Prowl find his own conclusions. The truth is there, the answer plain in front of him. Prowl need only be determined enough to find it.   
  
He moves closer to Prowl, holding out a hand as a peace offering. “I appreciate you accepting my invitation,” he says. Relief floods through him as Prowl accepts his hand, and the shake is both firm and companionable. “I hope we can speak again. I feel there is much we can learn from one another.”   
  
Prowl tilts his head, the blue of his optics stormy and incisive. “And here I was expecting an ultimatum. Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?” His field nudges at Megatron, not stealthily, but not offensively either. It is a tentative probe, like creeping through a field of land mines.   
  
“Do you want me to?” Megatron grins. His thumb sweeps briefly over the back of Prowl’s hand before he releases the Enforcer.   
  
He waits for Prowl to comment, but Prowl says nothing. Neither does his expression change. Either he hadn’t noticed the light touch, or it had meant little to him.   
  
Pity.   
  
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Prowl says.   
  
“No, it doesn’t.” Megatron moves toward the door, Soundwave opening it ahead of him and stepping outside, no doubt clearing the hall for Prowl’s safety. “I want you to be a Decepticon willingly, Prowl. I want you to see why we fight and join us because you believe in the cause. Anything less is unacceptable.”   
  
Prowl slips ahead of Megatron and loiters in the doorway. His gaze cuts Megatron to the protoform, and it’s as cold as his files claim him to be. No wonder he’s earned the nickname ‘coldspark’.   
  
“Then I can walk out of here safely, because surely you know I have no intention of joining your cause in this moment,” Prowl says, head tilted up with challenge, not an ounce of fear in his frame. “And you trust that I won’t betray you.”   
  
“Yes, that’s precisely it.”   
  
Prowl cycles his optics. His fingers rap a quiet rhythm against his thigh, like a nervous tic he’s unaware he has. “Why?”   
  
Why indeed. Megatron offers this flexibility to few others he’s attempted to recruit. And of them, Prowl is the riskiest. He’s the one who could bring the might of the law onto their heads, making their continued existence quite difficult. He could be the one to drive a hard knife through the core of the Decepticons.   
  
And he could also be the one to provide some much needed stability and tactical thinking to a leadership team in desperate need of it. Starscream and Soundwave are both brilliant in their own rights. But there’s an uneven balance Megatron knows Prowl is suited to equalize.   
  
“Because you are a mech of honor,” Megatron says. Honesty, he decides, is the best policy when it comes to Prowl. “I am certain that when the time comes to make a choice, you will lean toward the one which protects the people rather than harms them. Whichever that might mean.”   
  
Prowl cocks his head, like one might when examining a particularly convoluted math problem. “You are not what I thought you were.”   
  
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”   
  
A small huff of laughter escapes from Prowl’s lips. It is more charming than it has any right to be. It seems Prowl is not as cold-sparked as his reputation claims.  
  
“You should,” he says, a touch of amusement in the liminal space where their fields collide.   
  
An odd, warm flush steals into Megatron’s spark. He ignores it, for it doesn’t have a place here. It’s not something he cares to examine.   
  
“Soundwave will ensure you reach your friends safely,” he says. “You and I will speak again.” There’s a confidence in his tone, one he hopes Prowl respects.   
  
Prowl’s lips curve into a smirk. “One way or another.” He steps out of the room fully, his back to Megatron, sensory panels lax against his back. It’s a gesture of ease.   
  
He has no fear here. Good.   
  
The door shuts behind him. Only then does Megatron allow himself to slump into a chair, ex-venting a sound that mixes relief with delight. True, Prowl had not committed himself here and now, but there had been interest in his optics.   
  
It’s the best Megatron could have hoped for.   
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe collect him as though he’s a wayward sparkling of whom they’d lost sight. Sunstreaker looks Prowl up and down, checking for injuries or damage or tampering, and Sideswipe thanks Soundwave for escorting Prowl through clenched denta with forced politeness.   
  
Soundwave says nothing, and melts back into the shadows where he seems to live.   
  
“We were about to come looking for you,” Sideswipe says as they take up either side of Prowl, crowding him between their broader frames.   
  
“I was in no danger,” Prowl informs them. Oddly enough, he even believes it. Megatron had not meant him harm.   
  
He had also been nothing like Prowl expected. Larger than life, but smaller than rumor. He was an average mech, the right size for a miner, but too small for a gladiator. He had a presence, a charisma, but there’d always been something reserved. As though it is partially a front, and there’s a part of him more comfortable in a quiet room, away from the press of company.   
  
The promotional posters do not do him justice.   
  
Sunstreaker snorts. “No danger he says. Like he wasn’t a pitmouse in the middle of a nest of toxivipers. You could have been  _killed_ , Prowl.”   
  
“But I wasn’t,” he replies, careful to keep his tone mild. “Need I remind you both that I am a capable enforcer?”   
  
“Who’s never actually seen a real altercation,” Sideswipe points out. “How many firefights you been in?”   
  
Prowl doesn’t deign that question with a response.   
  
“Yeah, that’s what we thought,” Sunstreaker says. “So lucky for Megatron, you showed up before we had to start kicking down doors.”   
  
“And kicking aft, too,” Sideswipe adds.   
  
“I appreciate the sentiment. Really,” Prowl says. “But it’s unnecessary.”   
  
They snort in unison. Sunstreaker eyes him speculatively. “If you’re going to be diving into a turbofox’s den, you need better training.”   
  
Fortunately, the rail station comes into sight, and Prowl is saved from protecting his dubious abilities. Here is where they’ll separate because he can safely find his way back home. He doesn’t need an escort, and he tells them as much.   
  
They laugh, in that odd unison they sometimes have. Until the amusement turns to sobriety, and they pin him down a look that ages them immensely. Prowl’s not sure when they were sparked, but he knows he’s older than them. When they do this, the certainty starts to flicker.   
  
“If you sign up, so do we,” Sideswipe says, his optics darkening to such a solemn hue, Prowl is taken aback.   
  
“We know something’s rotten,” Sunstreaker adds, and his expression is set in stone, lips a thin line, optics bright and sharp, like he’s remembering something in particular. “We know things need to change. And if you decide the Decepticons are our best bet, then we’re with you.”   
  
“We trust you.” Sideswipe breaks into a more familiar, easygoing grin. He throws his arm over Prowl’s shoulder, mildly shaking him with a half-embrace. “So you know, no pressure or anything.” He pats Prowl on the bumper, two loud clangs of metal on metal.   
  
Sunstreaker snorts.   
  
Sideswipe pulls away. Each twin grasps a shoulder, a matching set of camaraderie squeezes, and then they’re gone, their words echoing in Prowl’s processor.   
  
They are his allies. They will go where he goes. But they lean toward the Decepticons, this much Prowl surmises. That, in itself, is another tick mark in Megatron’s column.   
  
Prowl returns to his habsuite, washes off the unfamiliar colors, and he thinks about Megatron, the Decepticons, the way he hadn’t even considered calling in a raid on the arena. A large enough force could have stormed the place, taken Megatron into custody if they were lucky. Mechs would have died.   
  
Judging by the fervor Prowl had seen in the crowd, he doubts it would’ve been easy to quash the Decepticon rebellion. Megatron might be imprisoned. He might die. But his words will outlive him. He’s opened the truth to far too many mechs. And if Soundwave is anything to go by, Megatron has capable lieutenants to keep the fires burning.   
  
The Senate is going to have to face the facts: it’s too late to put this back in the bottle. The revolution’s begun.   
  
Prowl flicks on the vidscreen for background noise as he powers on his console, determined to write down all the details from the evening he can recall. He keeps the notes on a private server, one only he can access, that’s separate from the intranet. He’s not so foolish to think he’s not being monitored in some manner.   
  
Breaking News captures his attention.   
  
Prowl swivels toward the screen as the ticker runs a steady update across the bottom, and the newscaster reads from his script.   
  
Minister Deltus is dead. Murdered apparently.   
  
Prowl taps his processor. Minister Deltus is responsible for foreign affairs. He heads the diplomatic department of Iacon and maintains friendly relations with the surrounding citystates as well as the Primal Estate.   
  
He’s supposed to be building an action plan for reasoning with the Decepticons.   
  
It’s probably what got him killed.   
  
Prowl’s comm chimes. He’s not the least bit surprised. He’s on his feet, switching off the vidscreen, and pulling out his Enforcer kit before he fully processes Silverspire’s words.   
  
Minister Deltus’ case is his. It bears uncomfortable similarity to Chancellor Bracket’s murder. There may be Decepticon involvement.   
  
He’s been approved for overtime.   
  
“Get to it,” Silverspire says, without asking if Prowl wants the case, without demanding he acquire a partner for something clearly in desperate need of at least two sharp minds.   
  
Prowl, despite his fatigue and noticing the bits of dark blue paint stubbornly clinging in random spots to his armor, obeys. He trudges out of his habsuite, back to the rail station, and heads across the city to the bright-lighted Orbis district where Minister Deltus resides.   
  
Or resided, to be more accurate.   
  
The crime scene is abuzz with activity. Helis circle the tall condominium. Spotlights point at the near-penthouse floor, highlighting all of the outer windows. From the street, Prowl can see the broken transteel, either from an intruder or from a struggle.   
  
He’s spotted by one of the officers and ushered through the crowd of onlookers and newsmechs, all of whom are desperate for a quote or eager to learn some small tidbit that makes them slightly more informed than the rest of the plebs. Another officer tumbles a datachip into his hand, no doubt containing all of the information they’ve obtained so far, and he’s sent up the lift to the minister’s residence.   
  
Crime scene holos flash in front of the main entrance like a bizarre club. Forensic technicians scuttle over every inch of the condo, collecting evidence and mapping its location. Prowl moves through them carefully, absently noting the details.   
  
Minister Deltus, deceased. Lying in a pool of his fluids, face down, in the foyer. Three gunshot wounds to the back, one to the head, bits of processor spraying over a once-immaculate floor. He looks like he’d been running, fleeing perhaps, toward what he imagined to be safety beyond his door.   
  
Prowl glances at the main entrance. No sign of forced entry. He tracks Deltus’ flight, follows it all the way to the busted window. Outward, not in, according to the shards of transteel.   
  
Prowl crouches, reassembling the fragments on an inner theater. Too small for something other than a minibot.   
  
He looks over his shoulder. There’s a direct line of sight from Deltus to the window. If high-powered enough, the blaster shots could be responsible for this. It doesn’t explain how the perpetrator entered, but it’s a start.   
  
Of greater interest is the wall in the main room.   
  
Prowl moves around investigators sweeping scanners over the floor and the walls as though secrets linger in the expensive paneling.   
  
‘You are Being Deceived’ the wall shouts at them in bright purple paint, dribbling down into a pool on the floor. The Decepticon badge is messy, as if scrawled by a hand unfamiliar with the design of it, but clear enough even the most uninformed know what it is. The stench of the paint is cloying.   
  
It’s sloppy. It’s infantile.   
  
It’s not the work of Megatron and his Decepticons, unless Megatron knows nothing of it and doesn’t approve. Unless it’s the work of a rogue. Megatron’s working too hard to earn the will of the people to taint his message by assassinating high profile mechs and leaving a calling card behind.   
  
It doesn’t make sense.   
  
Prowl spends several hours at Minister Deltus’ condo, collecting and collating the data in real time as the forensics analysts feed it to him. Preliminary investigations indicate Deltus was killed by a blaster, Enforcer standard issue. Just like Chancellor Bracket.   
  
Prowl frowns. Enforcer-issue blaster and Decepticon symbols. They are two disparate clues without a link between them. As far as he’s aware, no Enforcer has joined the Decepticon rebellion.   
  
Synthetic sunrise creeps over the horizon, and Prowl takes it as his cue to go home. There’s nothing more he can do here. The final reports will be sent his way, and he can shake the information to see what clues fall out. He’s exhausted. He needs another scrub.   
  
And he can’t stop thinking about Megatron.   
  
Clearly, it’s time for recharge.   
  


~

  
  
“Is that smile for me or some other unlucky sot?”   
  
Megatron looks up from his datapad as Starscream slinks into view, wings flicking, fingers trailing along the edge of the table as though tasting it. Amusement dances over his lips, but his optics are as sharp as ever. Has he found a new toy?   
  
“Neither.” Megatron flicks save and sets the datapad down. “Because I’m not smiling.” He tilts his head. “You’re back early.”   
  
Starscream cocks a hip against the table. He folds his arms over his cockpit. “He’s going to need a little time to think it over.”   
  
Megatron resists the urge to smirk. “So you failed?” To be fair, attempting to recruit such a highly recognized individual had been a longshot, but much like Prowl, Megatron suspects sowing a seed of doubt is only the beginning.   
  
Starscream snorts. “Hardly.” His gaze wanders, shoulders hitching up before sinking back down again. “He’s not desperate enough.”  
  
“But he will be.”   
  
Crimson optics narrow into slits. Starscream makes a noncommittal noise, his gaze slicing back toward Megatron. “Speaking of failures, I don’t see your pet project in the ranks yet.”   
  
“You don’t sound disappointed.”   
  
“We don’t need his kind.” Starscream’s wings flick.   
  
Megatron leans back, gives Starscream an even stare. “Yes, we do.” Anger and irritation flood Starscream’s face in a wave before Megatron continues, “You’re smart, Starscream. You and Soundwave both. The Decepticons need minds like yours. But they also need a mind like Prowl’s. I need someone who can think in numbers. We need someone who knows the system.”   
  
Starscream sneers. His gaze shifts elsewhere. “And how pretty he is has nothing to do with it.”   
  
“Is that jealousy I detect?”   
  
“Of what? Some Enforcer pet with a stick up his aft and the most boring paint job this side of Cybertron? Hardly.” Starscream snorts. Again. It’s not convincing. “I’m putting everything I have in this, Megatron. We all are. And Prowl is a risk we shouldn’t be taking.”   
  
Megatron presses his knuckles to his lips. The only sound in the room is their ventilating. He knows Starscream has a point.   
  
Just as he knows he’s right about this, too. Starscream’s never been much for faith in others. He trusts no one. He barely trusts himself. They can’t win this without faith.   
  
Megatron tilts his head. “Do you hear that?” he asks, his tone soft.   
  
Starscream straightens, wings going stiff. He listens intently, and then his optics narrow. “I hear nothing.”   
  
“Exactly.” Megatron conceals a smirk behind his fingers. “That’s the lack of an army of Enforcers chasing us down. That is the reassuring sound of a raid that didn’t happen. It is a quiet that convinces me Prowl is already one of us, he simply doesn’t know it yet.”   
  
“Just because he hasn’t sicced his turbowolves on us yet, doesn’t mean he isn’t going to,” Starscream retorts. He lowers his arms, plants a hand on his hip. “I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ when it happens.”   
  
Megatron grins. “Fair enough. Then I intend to say it when it doesn’t.”   
  
Starscream huffs a ventilation and turns away, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Go back to your plotting. We’ve got work to do.”   
  
Damn straight they do.   
  
He leaves before Megatron can offer up a reply, not that he has one in his arsenal. Talking with Starscream is often like tiptoeing through a minefield. Sometimes, he manages to make it halfway through before hearing the telltale click. Other times, he’s one step in before the ground blows up beneath him.   
  
Megatron shakes his head and gets back to work.   
  


~

  
  
The summons wakes Prowl from a recharge so short, it barely qualifies as a stasis nap. He comes to sentience groggily, the summons bouncing around the back of his processor like an itch he can’t scratch.   
  
He doesn’t have time for a rinse. He grabs his morning cube to go and joins the rush of mechs toward their first shift, still blinking recharge from his optics. Silverspire is not someone he can ignore.   
  
The office is a raucous bustle of activity, per the usual, but Prowl feels the attention on him as soon as he steps inside. Far too many gazes are drawn his way and that is out of the norm. One such face is all too familiar, and it doesn’t belong here.   
  
Prowl doesn’t duck his head, but he pretends not to notice. He keeps his optics forward, holds his head high, and swallows down a sigh when he’s immediately intercepted.   
  
“Prowl.” The lithe, mostly black frame steps between him and the hall to Silverspire’s office. A lazy grin accompanies a lingering glance over Prowl from top to bottom. “You’re looking well.”   
  
Prowl draws to a halt. “As are you.” He manages politeness only because he’s very aware that every optic in the station watches his every move.   
  
Barricade, one of his former partners, chuckles, a dark and rolling sound that seems to rattle out of his chassis. “Look at you, feigning politeness. I’m almost proud.” His optics flicker. “Where’s your partner?” He pauses, taps a taloned finger to the tip of his chin. “Oh, excuse me. I should probably clarify which one, shouldn’t I? There’ve been so many.”   
  
“What are you doing here, Barricade?” Prowl asks. He ignores the jab because he knows Barricade. Getting under someone’s plating is Barricade’s specialty. “This isn’t your precinct anymore.”   
  
Barricade’s head tilts to the left and right, as though he’s stretching his cables. “Just stopping by to say hello to old friends. Offering my services, should the captain need them. There are rumors his investigative force is, shall we say, lacking.” He shifts his weight, looks Prowl up and down again. “I’m sure you don’t know anything about that, now do you?”   
  
Anger walks up Prowl’s backstrut and settles between his shoulders. His sensory panels are so stiff, they tremble. “I’m not in a position to know,” he says through clenched denta. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be late.”   
  
He moves to pass Barricade, but his former partner remains in the middle of the hall. Prowl can either argue with him, shove him, or brush passed him. He opts for the latter, their shoulders colliding in a harsh rasp of metal on metal.   
  
Quick as a turboferret, Barricade’s spindly fingers wrap on Prowl’s shoulders, drawing him to a halt. They’re close now, close enough Prowl can feel the heat of Barricade’s ex-vents, and the grating buzz of his energy field.   
  
“You watch yourself, Prowl,” Barricade says, his tone low and almost careful, less inciting than it was before. “You venture into things you don’t understand.”   
  
Prowl narrows his optics. “Do you know something I don’t?”   
  
Barricade grins, slow and sultry. His hand slides free of Prowl’s shoulder. “Oh, I think we’ve already established that, lover. Long, long ago.” He steps away with a wink. “You have my comm. Use it the next time you get lonely.”   
  
“I’d rather be lonely,” Prowl says.   
  
A long chuckle is Barricade’s reaction. He slips away from Prowl, down the hall and back toward the main office, leaving Prowl free to continue toward Silverspire’s office. He watches Barricade go, a frown twisting his lips.   
  
Is it a coincidence?   
  
Prowl doesn’t believe in coincidences.   
  
Barricade had transferred to the Myades District. It’s on the very edge of Iacon, close enough to zones which edge other areas ripe with Decepticon activity. Barricade is most definitely the sort a captain might choose for an undercover op.   
  
Prowl should know. That used to be their specialty.   
  
The summons beeps at him again, and Prowl shakes his head. He’ll worry about Barricade later. He hurries to Silverspire’s office instead, and he’s ushered straight through without a moment’s wait.   
  
It’s more than a little disconcerting.   
  
Silverspire’s expression is cast in stress, his mouth a thin, grim slash and his optics dimmed. His desk is loaded with datapads, and the shutters are drawn on the window, casting a pale light in the room.   
  
“Sit,” he says, and there’s no courtesy, only command in his tone.   
  
Prowl sits. “Sir--”  
  
“I’ll talk, you’ll listen,” Silverspire interjects curtly. His stylus scribbles across a datapad; he doesn’t look up. “Chancellor Bracket. Minister Deltus. Those are your cases. Those are your cases you are not solving. I recognize Deltus was murdered last night, but you should be further in your inquiry regarding Bracket.”   
  
Prowl presses his lips together. His hands form fists against his thighs. He grits his denta, and his jaw aches.   
  
So. This is what Barricade had meant.   
  
“The public relies on us to keep them safe, to give them answers in a timely fashion,” Silverspire continues, each word emerging a sharp chastisement. “They look to us to end the Decepticon scourge as soon as possible. This includes punctually solving cases, especially ones which should already be finalized.”   
  
Prowl’s vents stutter.   
  
Silverspire looks up at him, lifts his orbital ridges. “Do you disagree?”   
  
“Of course not,” Prowl says, while the anger coils and lashes inside of him, growing into a tight knot between his shoulders. “We have a responsibility to the mechs of the city. I assure you, sir, I am doing everything I can to--”  
  
“Chancellor Bracket’s murder is a clear case of politically motivated assassination.” Silverspire’s tone thickens with warning, and his optics narrow.   
  
Prowl tastes sparks as he grinds his denta. “It appears to be so, yes,” he says, diplomatically. “But I am not convinced. Rarely are the easy answers the correct ones.”   
  
“We should take our victories when they come, rather than question them.” Silverspire’s stylus hits the datapad with a loud click. “If you were to tell me you are currently investigating the identity of the particular Decepticon involved, that would be one matter. But I suspect it is not the case.”   
  
Prowl shakes his head. “It doesn’t match a pattern--”  
  
“They’re lawless criminals who will do whatever it takes to foment their rebellion,” Silverspire cuts in sharply. He stands, slow and careful, leaning forward, palms flat on the desk. “It concerns me, Prowl, that you are so willing to defend them. It is a point of concern for all of us.”   
  
Cold seeps through his spark, through his lines, like a hydraulic flush.   
  
 _They are always watching._    
  
Silverspire’s optics grow darker and harder, until they speak warning. “It is not a point in your favor. There are certain things you want from your future, and this sort of thinking jeopardizes that future. Do you understand me?”   
  
There’s a lump in Prowl’s intake. He’s gripping his knees, hears them creak beneath his fingertips. “Yes, sir.”   
  
“Good.” Silverspire smiles, and it is neither friendly nor reassuring. “Then we understand each other.” He lowers back into his chair. “You will finalize your investigation on both Bracket and Deltus by the end of the week. You won’t waste anyone’s time, you will provide closure to the public and our superiors, and just maybe, if you are lucky, your application might be considered for re-submittal.”   
  
Maybe. Might. Lucky.   
  
These words do not reassure him. There are false hopes, empty promises.   
  
Prowl’s sensory panels are so still, the hinges ache. He creaks his head into a submissive nod. Barricade’s words haunt him. They strangely echo Megatron’s.   
  
“Yes, sir,” he says.   
  
“I am relieved you understand,” Silverspire says. He picks up his stylus and bends back over his datapad. “Bring me results, Prowl. Or I’ll find someone who can.”   
  
His fingers throb. He stands, forces his fingers out of a tight fist, struggles with the wave of heat in his frame from clamped armor.   
  
“Dismissed.”   
  
Prowl leaves. He catches no one’s optic. He tenses, expecting to be waylaid by his former partner, triumphant with glee. Barricade is nowhere in sight.  
  
Prowl heads straight for the forensics floor and demands every scrap of data they’ve collected so far. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but he looks at it again. And again.   
  
Standard paint, available at any supplier. No signs of entry. No signs of struggle. No dropped paint flecks or tracks or surveillance footage. Wound caused by a hand blaster, Enforcer grade. Easy to acquire for an Enforcer, slightly more difficult for a criminal, but there are access points to black markets on every corner.   
  
Prowl leaves, aware of the optics on him, and forms a list of friends and allies and witnesses to interview. Minister Deltus’ secretary and undersecretary, the members of his cabinet, his banker, his friends, his political companions. What meetings he does manage to get tell him nothing.   
  
Minister Deltus and Chancellor Bracket were friends, he discovers, and isn’t surprised. They were working together on some project to help end the Decepticon menace. No one knows the details.   
  
Prowl toys with the idea of calling Senator Shockwave. If there’s anyone who can get into the restricted files, it’s the senator. He might be the only one willing to be of assistance as well.   
  
It’s an idea he puts on a back burner. If he can’t solve this on his own, then Shockwave will have risked his reputation for nothing.   
  
It’s late by the time Prowl trudges home. Long after most mechs have finished their first shift, and near the end of second. He slinks into his habsuite, flicks on the vidscreen both for background noise and because sometimes there’s information he needs, and grabs a cube of mid-grade, sipping it slowly while he stands at the counter. His processor clicks and rattles like an overused machine, and he can’t find the grease to keep it running smoothly.   
  
The headline blips into view.   
  
Prowl’s spark runs cold. He lowers his cube and stares at the screen, sensory panels sinking downward, armor clamped so tight he fears overheating again.   
  
‘Two Cybertronian citizens of prominence are now dead. Enforcers say they have no leads. The detective assigned to the case – Prowl – has made no progress.’   
  
Prowl’s ventilations stutter. He sees without seeing, static lurching into his vision. His designation, they know his designation, and now they are splashing it over the vidwaves, the airwaves.   
  
‘Current theories blame the Decepticons. Their badge has been found at both murder scenes. Results continue to be inconclusive. Are the Decepticons hunting political officers? What are the Enforcers doing to protect us? If you ask the average mech, it appears to be nothing.’   
  
Nothing.   
  
 _Click._    
  
Prowl turns the vidscreen off and braces his hands on the edge of the counter. He hangs his head, offlines his optics, tries to ventilate. His spark spins into a tighter ball in his chassis, like it’s trying to spin itself out of existing. The knot between his shoulders makes it hard to focus. The midgrade sits in his tanks like a heavy sludge.   
  
His comm chimes.   
  
Prowl startles and checks the ident code. He’s not sure what to expect. Silverspire, perhaps, calling to chastise him on his offshift. It wouldn’t be the first time. Megatron, with another tempting offer. Barricade, even, just to taunt.   
  
It’s none of them.   
  
It’s Tumbler.   
  
The cold returns, an icy clutch around Prowl’s spark. The trembling increases in earnest. His comm chirps, and he debates for almost too long about whether or not he’ll answer it.   
  
He’s weak.   
  
“Evening, Prowl.” Tumbler’s voice comes through, soft and sure, as if weeks of silence haven’t passed between them, and he hadn’t walked out that door with anger writ in his face and across the lines of his armor.   
  
“Tumbler,” Prowl says. He pauses, glossa sweeping over his lips. “What do you want?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but his words betray him.   
  
Tumbler laughs, but it’s not an amused sound. “Yeah, that’s about as friendly as I thought you’d sound.” He hesitates, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “I saw the news.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“Damn it, Prowl.” Tumbler bites out a frustrated noise. “Can you unbend for two fracking kliks so I can help you?”   
  
He squeezes his optics shut. “You’re not my partner anymore,” Prowl says. Not by any definition of the term, as it turns out.   
  
“No, yes, I know that,” Tumbler says. He sighs into the comm, and it rattles through Prowl’s audials like static. “But it looks like you’re in over your head, and I know you, and I know Silverspire. You need a partner on this.”   
  
“I had a partner.”   
  
Tumbler’s silence speaks volumes. He’d always been the one who talked before. He’d been the one who argued and insisted and pleaded and now that he’s the one with the silence, it’s telling.   
  
“You need help,” Tumbler finally says.   
  
“You’ve said as much before,” Prowl bites out, and it hurts. By Primus, it hurts, and it’s all he can do to swallow over the lump in his intake and the shards of ice creeping in around his spark, pointing their sharp daggers at the core of him. “You’re not coming back, and you’re not actually interested in helping, so why don’t you tell me what you want since it’s obvious nothing in this habsuite is on the list.”   
  
The line goes dead.   
  
Well.   
  
Prowl lowers his hand from his comm. He grips the edge of the counter again. It’s probably better this way. No false promises, no empty hopes. No pretend overtures. Just a dropped call, a final line of welding.   
  
He cycles a ventilation, in and out. The silence of his hab encloses him, like the slot of a mausoleum. He doesn’t know what’s louder – the ticking of his own frame, or the faint noise of the traffic several floors below.   
  
He should get back to work. He could review his cases. He could go back over his interviews, see what he’s missed. He could do his job.   
  
Or he could leave his apartment, go to The Leaky Spigot, and chase away the chill in his spark with the blazing heat of cheap, potent engex. It’s possibly the worst decision he could make. Silverspire’s disapproval hangs over his head like a guillotine. Barricade’s implications make the first cut. Tumbler’s exasperation frays the cord.   
  
Prowl pushes away from the counter.   
  
Frag it. Frag them all.   
  
He heads for The Leaky Spigot.   
  


***


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a dark, dusty corner, both literally and figuratively. The Leaky Spigot cannot possibly pass the health code inspection, but it’s still open for business, so either the inspector has very greased fingers, or hasn’t bothered to actually investigate in cycles. The floor is tacky, the windows are grimy, and there are literal ironspider webs in the corner above Prowl’s head.   
  
The engex is cheap, the high grade cheaper, and ceiling fans clatter lazily, stirring the dusty, otherwise tepid air. The tables are full, the bar stools fuller, but it’s not loud in here. Rather it’s quiet, with an undercurrent of tension. It’s the kind of place that breeds Decepticons, if you ask Prowl.   
  
There’s a subtle, unspoken rule. No one bothers anyone else. Prowl doesn’t arrest anyone. No one gives him the stink optic for being an Enforcer. He can drink and brood in peace. Though he’s not, precisely, brooding.   
  
He orders engex he’s not drinking so he can keep the table, and nurses the same cube all night, liquid carefully poured from the house cube into one he’s brought from his own suite. He doesn’t trust the cleanliness of the cube it came in.   
  
There are a few vidscreens powered on, displaying the evening news. One of them shows reruns of a classic sitcom. Prowl has his back to all four. He has no interest in viewing what sent him here in the first place.   
  
His thoughts rattle around inside his head like ball bearings bouncing down a staircase. He’s angry, and he’s tired, and he’s stuck in a spinning wheel, making no progress, because he doesn’t know what to do, and he doesn’t know who to ask.   
  
Someone hovers in his peripheral vision. Prowl acknowledges them distantly, but makes no move to greet the stranger. So far, his chilly reception and thousand yard stare has kept even the most curious or intrigued from making a move.   
  
“Is this seat taken?”  
  
Prowl knows that voice. He goes still, turning slowly to look up and up to find Megatron standing there, a smile curling his lips, a cube of engex in his hand. But surely he must be mistaken. Why in the world would the leader of the Decepticons be here?   
  
“Megatron?”   
  
“The one and only,” he says and slides into the booth across from Prowl, pushing the table a bit closer to Prowl to make room for his bulk. He looks too small to be crouched in the booth, or maybe it’s just his personality.   
  
“Is that wise?” Prowl asks, orbital ridges lifted. He leans out of the booth, peering into the smoky atmosphere of the bar, but no one seems to take much notice of the mech sitting across from him.   
  
Megatron rolls his massive shoulders. “You’re technically the only one who can see me. Everyone else sees the average construction mech who may or may not be familiar.” He lifts his cube with a frown. “I don’t think they’ve washed these in a decade.”   
  
“What?” Prowl asks, confused.   
  
“It’s quite filthy,” Megatron says, tilting the cube toward him and pointing at a greasy streak.   
  
Prowl hisses through his denta. “Not the cube. Why can’t anyone see you?”   
  
“Ah, yes. That.” Megatron sets the cube on the table and pushes it toward the edge with a single finger. He then laces his fingers and rests his hands on the table. “It was Starscream’s idea. He said, and I quote ‘if you’re intent on doing something so monumentally stupid, I am obligated to both inform you that it’s a bad idea and do my best to try and lessen your risk.’”  
  
Prowl crinkles his nose. “He sounds charming.”   
  
Megatron rolls his shoulders, something casual and unassuming about it. “You get used to him.”   
  
“No, thanks.” Prowl leans back, concealing a grimace as his panels chime against the rough material behind him. “In case it isn’t already obvious, I want to be alone.”   
  
Megatron arches a single orbital ridge. “If you wanted solitude, you wouldn’t have come to a bar.”   
  
Prowl makes a pointed look at his solitary corner, the darkness and webs gathered around it, the fact that not even a server has paused by their table to inquire about their comfort. He narrows his optics.   
  
“You would have stayed in your habsuite and drank yourself to oblivion there,” Megatron continues, with a tone of experience to his words. “Instead, you came here. You chose a dark corner, granted. You don’t want company, but you don’t want to be alone.”   
  
And they aren’t necessarily the same thing.   
  
“How astute of you.”   
  
“I won’t qualify as company,” Megatron says as he leans back. He pulls something from subspace – a small bottle of high grade by the looks of it. “We don’t even have to talk.”   
  
“Good. Because I don’t intend to,” says Prowl, and he takes a long, spiteful sip of his engex, even though it burns like fire, and turns to sludge in his tanks. He hadn’t intended to drink it at all, but he needs the distraction now.   
  
Megatron’s lip curls like he’s amused, but staving it off. “I already know why you’re here. I don’t need you to.”   
  
The cube hits the table with a dull thunk, liquid splashing out over Prowl’s fingers. “Are you stalking me?” he demands, sensory panels flicking up, smacking the back of the seat.   
  
And there it is, the smile that’s a smirk, a gleam of satisfaction in Megatron’s optics that has no business fluttering through Prowl’s internals. “I prefer to think of it as intelligence gathering.”   
  
Prowl glares.   
  
Megatron shakes his head and tips it toward one of the bar’s vidscreens, closed captioning providing a running tape of the newscasters reports. “I watch the news, Prowl. I’m well aware of what the top story is on every local chapter.” He raps one hand on the table, knuckles making a rat-tat-tat. “It wasn’t us, by the way.”   
  
Prowl rolls his optics. “I know.” He drags down the latter half of his engex and worries he’s losing sensation in his glossa. “Or at least, it wasn’t on your orders if a Decepticon was responsible.”   
  
“In the optics of your superiors, there’s little difference,” Megatron says.   
  
“It matters to me,” Prowl says before his logic circuit intercedes and reminds him he’s being too honest. He blames the cheap engex. It’s disrupting his neural connections.   
  
Megatron stares at him.   
  
A server walks by, scooping up Megatron’s dirty cube, snatching Prowl’s empty one, and leaving two full cubes in their wake. If Prowl had to wager, these are even filthier than before, but suddenly, they sparkle like new, and he needs the engex in them more than he needs the worry about their cleanliness.   
  
He empties a third of his cube.   
  
“How did you know I was here?” Prowl asks, desperate to change the subject.   
  
Megatron smirks, easygoing. “I’m stalking you,” he says, and tugs his cube closer, examining it like one might a legal datapad.   
  
“Aft,” Prowl mutters.   
  
Megatron laughs, and there’s something carefree in it, something genuine. Whatever it means, Megatron decides now’s the perfect time to indulge in his engex, and he drains half the cube with a grimace, though he wipes at his mouth afterward.   
  
“You have terrible taste in drinking establishments,” Megatron says.   
  
“Noted.” Another third of the cube goes down easy. Perhaps too easy. There’s an odd spinning motion at the back of his head, but Silverspire and Tumbler and Barricade are all faded to a dull ache in his memories. They aren’t bothering him right now.   
  
Prowl rolls the burn of the engex around in his mouth, glossa running over his denta, shoulders hunched. He cups the cube, head spinning and spinning. He peers up at Megatron.   
  
“You’re not trying to recruit me,” he comments.   
  
“Not at this present moment, no. I do have some propriety.” Megatron’s elbows meet the edge of the table. He leans forward, gaze not leaving Prowl. “It occurs to me that right now what you need is not someone who wants something from you, but a friend.”   
  
Prowl snorts. It’s a wet, unattractive sound. “Don’t know how you can be one when you’re trying to be the other.”   
  
Megatron tilts his head. “Practice.”   
  
Prowl laughs, and the noise drowns in the quick finish of his cheap engex, something gritty sliding across his glossa in the dregs. His tank clenches as he shoves the empty toward the edge. His fingers shake.   
  
He eyes the half-empty cube in front of Megatron. “You going to finish that?”   
  
Megatron drags a finger around the rim of the cube. “No, but I don’t think you should either.”   
  
“You don’t know what I need,” Prowl growls, and he’s too blitzed to be horrified by the slur to his words, the crackling of static on the edges.   
  
He doesn’t indulge enough. He rarely touches intoxicants, and it shows. Two cubes of greasy, chunky cheap engex and his gyros spin.   
  
The last time this happened, he’d been turned down for a promotion again. He’d called Tumbler to come get him. Tumbler had towed him home, giving him disappointed, chiding looks the whole time.   
  
‘You should know better,’ he’d said.   
  
‘I do,’ Prowl had croaked in reply.   
  
Knowing better doesn’t often mean you act upon the smarter course. Sometimes, you just want to be an idiot.   
  
Like now.   
  
Prowl’s listing in his seat, a ship in the midst of a storm without an anchor to keep him stable. The crash will happen soon enough. He should be in his berth when it does.   
  
He should be home.   
  
Prowl stands up and clutches the table to keep his balance. The floor dips and sways beneath him. It moves out from under his feet.   
  
There’s an arm on his elbow, keeping him upright. “I may not know what you need,” says a warm, deep voice. “But right now, I can guess you should be home.”   
  
“Good guess,” Prowl mumbles. He clumsily digs through his arm panel, looking for a cred chip.   
  
One appears on the table, and he blinks at it dumbly. He’s still fishing around his compartment; he doesn’t remember finding one.   
  
The table moves away. No, Prowl’s leaving it, thanks to the firm hand on his elbow, the tall and strong presence at his side. Gentle as it leads Prowl away from the table, threads him through the furniture at the bar, and out into a chilly evening, chilly enough Prowl’s armor creaks and draws in tight to his protoform.   
  
His world is a smear of color. His tanks clench and threaten to rebel. Prowl cycles his optics again and again, but nothing clarifies. The harder he tries to focus, the more it slips away.   
  
“I can call you a transport, or I can take you home.”   
  
Prowl blinks up at his savior, sees a smear of gray and red. “You know where I live?”   
  
“I’m stalking you. Remember?”   
  
Prowl laughs, noisy and messy, and flops against warm metal, a powerful engine thrumming beneath his clumsy palm.   
  
“Take me home,” Prowl says.   
  
To his quiet, sterile home that hasn’t seen any face but his for months. Where his research and his investigation spreads throughout his home office like a monument to his failures.   
  
He’s not quite sure how he gets there, but he remembers distantly that it’s Megatron who’s less of a villain and more of a sitter. It’s Megatron who hauls him out of the transport and into the lift and shoves Prowl’s limp palm against his door so his suite unlocks. It’s Megatron who dumps Prowl onto his berth, though kindly, and it’s Megatron who says,   
  
“I don’t envy the ache you’ll have in the morning.”   
  
“You don’t want this,” Prowl says into his pillow, face muffled into the foam padding, his sensory flats sending conflicting readings where they blanket his back. “Find another Enforcer.”   
  
Megatron lingers in his doorway, casting a long shadow, all darkness and stripes of biolight. “You’re the best,” he rumbles.   
  
Or Prowl thinks he rumbles anyway. Sound is a blur of static and noise, a wash of words filtering through the gray in his audials.   
  
The next time he looks, the shadow in his doorway is gone, and the lights in his suite are dim, and the tick-tick-tick of the chronometer in the main hallway is the only thing to break the quiest. Prowl groans and clutches a pillow under his head and hates himself for this weakness.   
  
It’s why he’ll never be anything more than he is, he thinks, and then the gray eclipses all else and the tide of excess tugs him under.   
  


~

  
  
Prowl pays for his overindulgence.   
  
The morning cycle dawns, too bright, too loud, and with a queasy clench to his tanks he holds back with willpower alone. He staggers through a washcycle in the racks, he chugs low grade and coolant, and glares daggers at the bright light streaming through his windows.   
  
There’s a note on his console monitor. A looping script speaks of archivists, not miners, but it’s signed by Megatron nonetheless.   
  
‘I have the utmost faith in you.’   
  
That’s all it says. Prowl can’t decide if Megatron is referring to Prowl’s choice regarding the Decepticons, or the two investigations currently stalling. Perhaps both.   
  
He debates discarding the note, but keeps it instead, saving the file to his secure drive. He flops down into his chair, sips at his low grade, and forces himself to focus through the pounding in his head. Everything hurts, but he can’t get distracted. He has work to do.   
  
He idly reviews the information he’s gathered so far. The interviews, the evidence, the forensics analyses.   
  
A designation stands out from the crowd. Not because Prowl thinks the mech responsible. Of course not. But because he’s a link, a connection. A thin line drawn from Chancellor Bracket to Minister Deltus.   
  
Senator Shockwave. The name is not unfamiliar to Prowl. After all, he is the one who sponsored Prowl’s first application for frame exemption and promotion to the Enforcers.   
  
The lead is thin, but it’s the first one Prowl’s found. The threat of another lecture from Silverspire hangs over his head. He needs to make progress. He’ll take what he can get.   
  
Morning cycle punishes him further by being painfully bright, and the throb in Prowl’s head migrates to sit right behind his optics. He doesn’t trust himself to drive, so he hails a transport to Senator Shockwave’s office, where his receptionist assures Prowl he can be found.   
  
Shockwave’s office is bright and cheerful, with eager faces hurrying past Prowl, and not all of them are administrative frames. He thinks Shockwave must make a habit of hiring the disenfranchised or the odd and unusual. Outliers must flock to him in droves.   
  
Prowl’s shown straight to Senator Shockwave’s private office without an ounce of suspicion or arrogant disrespect. It’s kind of refreshing actually.   
  
“Prowl,” Shockwave greets with a smile and an extended hand. There’s no hesitation, his joy genuine, and his field open to Prowl. “When I was told you wanted to speak with me, I was delighted to accept the request. It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?”   
  
“Decades at least, sir,” Prowl says. He knows Shockwave tangentially. He’d only met the mech once, at his frame exemption hearing. There’s very little about the senator that seems to have changed since then.   
  
To this day, he’s still not sure why Shockwave chose to sponsor him.   
  
“Is that so?” Shockwave smiles and clasps Prowl’s hand in a firm shake. When they separate, he gestures to a chair across from the desk. “Have a seat.”   
  
“Thank you.”   
  
Prowl takes the offered chair, perching at the edge of the foam cushion, more than a little taken by the massive windows forming the back wall of Shockwave’s office. There’s nothing but sky for miles, with the occasional skyscraper to break up the horizon. From here, what do normal mechs look like? Tiny creatures scurrying about?   
  
Shockwave lowers himself into his own chair with an audible creak of springs. “So, how can I be of assistance?”   
  
“I was hoping you could answer some questions for me regarding Chancellor Bracket and Minister Deltus,” Prowl answers. No point in loitering or making small talk.   
  
Shockwave nods slowly. “I understand they were murdered,” he says as though each word is carefully chosen. One hand flattens on the desktop, fingers rapping. “I don’t know how I can help you, but I will try.”   
  
“I appreciate it.” Prowl powers on his datapad, flips out a stylus, and starts a new file. “What connection did you have with the victims?”   
  
Shockwave sucks in a vent. “Well, you surely don’t bother with pleasantries.” He doesn’t appear startled or angry, but in fact, there’s something almost… pleased in the way he looks at Prowl. As if he’s proud.   
  
“I’m on something of a deadline.” Prowl smiles, but it’s thin. Silverspire’s warning is fresh in his mind, and the newscast seems to be running on a steady line of failure and blame.   
  
“Understandable.” Shockwave raps his fingers on the desk again. His optics dim in thought. “They, along with myself, were part of a committee whose sole purpose was to prepare a plan to handle the Decepticons.”  
  
That tacks with several conclusions Prowl had already drawn. It’s a thin connection, a thin motive, but it’s better than none.   
  
He nods. “I’ve heard as much, but Deltus and Bracket’s associates were shy on the details. It was considered a confidential matter.” One of Deltus’ undersecretaries had mentioned a cooperative project, and Bracket’s personal assistant had hinted to a team, but both hadn’t offered anything further than an eavesdropped comment.   
  
“They would say that, wouldn’t they?” Shockwave chuckles, but it’s not amused. “The proposition was to allow the Decepticons to become a political party that could give them a voice in both the Senate and the high council. It was an attempt to find a middle ground, to offer a truce to Megatron in order to cease the bloodshed until terms could be decided.”  
  
“A seemingly fair proposal.”   
  
“Seemingly being the operative word here.” Shockwave’s lips thin into a smile. “There were some within the committee who would not budge on certain tenets of the proposition. Namely, the requirement that all Decepticons register for the political party in order to prove its existence.”   
  
“A registry.” Prowl’s sensory panels flatten against his back, matching his vocal tones. “In other words, a list of every Decepticon, including those who may only be interested in the cause but not party to violence, which the Senate could then use to exact punishment.”   
  
“You are as intelligent as I always thought you were.” Shockwave toys with an item on his desk. “So you can see why others, like myself, were not on board with the idea.”   
  
Prowl scribbles down a notation. “Let me guess, Bracket and Deltus were of the registry argument.”   
  
Shockwave slides a hand down his face. “Yes.” He rubs fingers around his mouth. “Small wonder the Decepticons are being blamed. Though I am curious as to how they’ve learned the particulars of the committee. It’s supposed to be confidential.”   
  
“Would you be willing to give me a list of the members?” Prowl asks.   
  
Shockwave slides into his chair, sitting with the heaviness of someone who carries a terrible burden. “And notate the ones who proposed the registration?”   
  
“It would be helpful,” Prowl says.   
  
“You think someone’s targeting them specifically,” Shockwave replies, and it’s a statement, not a question. His fingers tap across a datapad in rapid staccato.   
  
“It would appear so. Which if that is the case, whoever else is on the list may be next.” Prowl frowns, his internals squirming. He still doesn’t believe the perpetrators to be Decepticon. There’s something else at work here. He’s sure of it. “They need to be warned.”   
  
Shockwave slides the datapad across the desk. “Be careful,” he says. “You’re stepping into a halornet’s nest of tangled politics. Maybe it was the Decepticons, maybe it wasn’t. But something tells me you caught these cases for a reason.”   
  
Prowl presses his lips together. He accepts the datapad but doesn’t power it on. Warnings echo upon themselves at the back of his processor. There’s a pattern here, and Prowl’s certain it’s not coincidental.   
  
“I fear you may be right.” He pauses, debating. Should he mention his inability to acquire a promotion? Silverspire’s thinly veiled warning? His own meetings with Megatron? Does he trust Shockwave this far? “It would be nice if my abilities were the only reason, but it’s clear by now they will never be respected.”   
  
Prowl rises, tucking the datapad into his subspace. “I appreciate your time and the information, Senator Shockwave. It’s been very helpful.”   
  
“Of course.” Shockwave stands as well, and clasps hands with Prowl. “If you have any further questions, you can contact me any time.”   
  
“Likewise.” Prowl smiles politely.   
  
He excuses himself, leaving Shockwave to his business, whatever that might be, and the no doubt pressing concerns of the committee, now short two members. There will be others, more politicians to fill in the empty slots. Perhaps the assassinations – because Prowl can’t think of them as anything but – are meant to be both deterrent and warning. The message is getting muddled, however. No one’s supposed to know that a) the committee exists and b) the purpose of it.   
  
In the lift, Prowl pulls out the datapad and skims the designations – noting which ones Shockwave has indicated are pro-registration.   
  
A designation sticks out more than the rest – Senator Ratbat.   
  
Prowl’s denta clench. Ratbat, who is also Soundwave’s sponsor. Soundwave, who is Megatron’s closest confidante, or at least one of them. And yet, he is meant to believe the Decepticons are not involved? When all signs point to the victims being targeted because of their support of the registry?   
  
Prowl’s vents hitch. He notes the other designations and makes it a point to inform Silverspire to set them all an extra guard just in case.   
  
The lift chimes and deposits him on the lowest floor. Prowl tucks the datapad away and exits the office building in a haze. Pointing fingers at the Decepticons remains the easiest answer, because Primus-below it makes sense. Prowl’s still not ready to accept it.   
  
He’s not sure anymore if it’s because he’s biased, or if he’s see something that’s truly there.   
  
Prowl hasn’t managed two steps from the front entrance of the office building before his comm chirps. It’s not the official line, which means it isn’t Silverspire. He doesn’t know who else it could be, unless it’s Tumbler. Had he commed his former partner in the midst of his overindulgence last night?   
  
He doesn’t recognize the ident code, but again, it has an origin code in Slaughter City. An inkling of identity drizzles through his processor. Somehow, he’s rather certain it’s not a solicitation.   
  
“Prowl here.”   
  
“Prowl.” The rough-rumble pours into his audials, and Prowl will never admit that it sends a tingle down his spinal strut. “You sound alert. I trust you’re feeling better?”   
  
Heat flushes Prowl’s cheeks. Thank Primus Megatron is not in front of him. “Yes, I am.” He works his jaw, swallowing his embarrassment. “I appreciate your assistance last night, though I apologize it was necessary.”   
  
“It’s quite alright. We all have our moments. Is that not what friends are for?”   
  
Prowl steps out of the traffic flow, moving into the shadow of a balcony overhead. “Is that what we are?”   
  
“I’d like to think so.” Megatron’s voice is as warm as an idling engine. “And I promise, I did not take advantage of you last night.”   
  
Prowl coughs a ventilation. “I’m aware of that.” He shifts his weight and watches the other mechs pass, none of whom take notice of him. “I would like to thank you, if at all possible.”   
  
“I’m still in the city.”   
  
“Why?”  
  
Megatron chuckles softly. “Research. Materials in Slaughter City are lacking, as I’m sure you know. I’m currently at The Collective.”   
  
The Collective. Prowl can’t imagine Megatron sitting in the posh and polished atrium. He’d look as out of place as Soundwave with his mechanimal cassettes. It’s an incongruous image.   
  
Frankly, he’s surprised they let Megatron through the door.   
  
“I’m nearby,” Prowl says. “I can be there in ten minutes if you’ll let me buy you a drink. Not an intoxicant, however.”   
  
“I think I have the time to spare,” Megatron drawls. Amusement rings rich in his tone. “I’m in the historical archives at present. I’ll see you shortly.”   
  
The call ends.   
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation, rubbing a hand over his head. Yes, he wants to thank Megatron, but he also has questions. The list feels heavy where it sits in his compartment. He has to know if the Decepticons are at all complicit.   
  
He has to know how much of a fool Megatron is making of him.   
  
Fortunately, he’s only a few blocks away from the Collective. It takes him no time at all to find the massive building in downtown center. It’s large enough to welcome a shuttle through the front doors, with access ports on the outside for the rare few larger than that who cannot fit.   
  
Prowl stops in at the attached cafe before he ventures further inside, and purchases a sampling of treats and two sealed cubes of spiced midgrade. After that, it’s down two spiraling railwells to the second underground level where the historical archives are kept. It’s an open floor plan, and he spies Megatron immediately, holding court in the middle with an array of datapads stacked on the table around him.   
  
There are no other patrons in sight. Prowl doesn’t know if it’s because Soundwave is lurking in the shadows, preventing others from bothering Megatron, or if Megatron’s managed to scare everyone away.   
  
Megatron looks up as Prowl approaches, and he greets Prowl with a smile. “That was faster than ten minutes.”  
  
“I like to give myself breathing room.” Prowl offers one of the cubes. “Will this do?”   
  
Megatron peels off the seal and gives it a tentative sniff. “This is perfect. Thank you.” He gestures to one of the empty chairs. “Have a seat. That is, if you intend to stay for a while.”   
  
“Long enough. I have some questions.” Prowl chooses a seat that puts a table between himself and Megatron, a stack of datapads neatly concealing Megatron so that only his upper torso, shoulders, and head are visible. Not that he doesn’t trust the Decepticon leader or anything.   
  
Prowl sets the box of goodies between them, the delicious smells wafting from it and tempting him enough to withdraw an oil cake. Nothing cures overindulgence quite like sticky sweets without any nutritional value whatsoever.   
  
“Nothing terrible I hope,” Megatron says, and if he eyes some of the sweets in Prowl’s box with longing, Prowl is polite enough not to comment.   
  
“Help yourself,” he says, hiding a smile as Megatron nearly dives into the box and pulls out a handful of rust sticks. “And I suppose it depends on the answers you give me.”   
  
Prowl skims the datapads scattered around the table. Some of the titles are visible and to his surprise, Megatron hadn’t exaggerated. He very much is here to read historical volumes, though they do seem to be focused on periods in Cybertronian history that relate to political upheavals.   
  
“Then that depends on the questions you have.” Tiny crumbs fleck on Megatron’s lips, and he licks them away. “Though I am relieved to see you’ve recovered from your overindulgence last night.”   
  
Heat threatens to steal into Prowl’s cheeks. He valiantly fights it down. “That was a moment of weakness which will not be repeated.”   
  
“We have those from time to time. It’s to be expected.” Megatron rolls his shoulders and settles into his chair. “But your field is agitated. Ask your questions.”   
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation and withdraws the datapad. He rests it on the table next to his forgotten cube of midgrade. “You’re aware I’m investigating the deaths of Chancellor Bracket and Minister Deltus, yes?”   
  
“I am.” Not so much as a flinch from Megatron.   
  
“I spoke with Senator Shockwave today. He informed me they were members of a committee specifically created to deal with the Decepticons.” Prowl watches Megatron carefully, searching for any tells. “At the time of Bracket’s death, they were debating the merits of a registry. Did you know anything about that?”   
  
Megatron shakes his head and sits up, lacing his fingers together to rest them on the tabletop. “I’ve heard rumors. Whispers. But nothing concrete. Though I will cast my vote now on such a thing being a terrible idea.”   
  
“Really?” Prowl frowns to mask the anger bubbling up in his spark. “I find that very hard to believe.”   
  
Megatron arches an orbital ridge. “You think I’m lying?”   
  
“Either that or Soundwave is not as loyal as you think.”   
  
A storm flashes across Megatron’s face. “Explain,” he demands, his shoulders wreathed with tension, fingers tightening around one another.   
  
Prowl sets his expression in stone. “Senator Ratbat is also on the committee.”   
  
“So you’re assuming Ratbat tells his slave everything and therefore, Soundwave must be aware of the purpose of this committee,” Megatron growls.   
  
Prowl doesn’t flinch, though he imagines Megatron is used to threatening others with that tone. Prowl is not so easily cowed. “You mean to tell me Soundwave wouldn’t have come across the information on his own?”   
  
“If he has, he hasn’t shared it with me. But neither has he acted on his own and certainly not in such a manner as to be both obvious and foolish.” Megatron makes a disgusted noise and flicks a finger over his cube of midgrade. “Whoever is responsible for your killings either wants to be caught or is setting a trap. It’s not us.”   
  
Prowl frowns. He believes Megatron, and that’s perhaps the traitorous part of him. It’s always struck him as too easy to blame the Decepticons, even before Megatron contacted him. What foolish revolution would do something so incendiary?   
  
But if not the Decepticons, then who?   
  
“I don’t suppose you have an alternative suspect,” Prowl asks.   
  
Megatron shakes his head. “No. But I’ve been having Soundwave look into it on the side. We’re as invested in locating the true perpetrators as you are.” He brushes a hand over his head, looking the most strained Prowl has seen thus far. “If this revolution has any hope of succeeding, our cause can’t be tainted by these lies.”   
  
Prowl snorts a ventilation before he can stop himself. “These incidents aren’t going to be what breaks your revolution, Megatron.”   
  
“Is that so?” If Megatron’s angry, it doesn’t show on his face.   
  
“Yes.” Prowl toys with his barely touched cube of energon. “You have to realize that what you’re doing right now isn’t working.”   
  
Megatron leans back, arms folding over his chassis. “I’ve raised an army,” he points out, a touch of indignation in his tone.   
  
“No, you’ve raised a mob. An angry, unruly one.”   
  
“Of course they’re angry! They’ve been used, discarded, treated like nothing.” Megatron’s voice slides into a hiss, and he cycles an audible ventilation.   
  
Prowl surprises himself with how little he fears Megatron’s anger. “There’s nothing wrong with anger. Anger is good. It can stoke the fires and get you motivated, but without direction, it turns into chaos.”   
  
“They have direction!”  
  
“Not a concrete one.” Prowl pauses and straightens, reminding himself to keep control. Megatron is not Silverspire. He’s not to blame for the anger writhing in Prowl’s spark.   
  
“Look, you have power here. You have influence. And yes, you have an army. But right now, you’re angry and causing chaos and lashing out. You’re not effecting change. You’re building an army, but you need to gain the support of the people, too. Not just the ones who are going to fight with their fists, but the ones who fight with words.”   
  
“Cowards, you mean.” Megatron’s lip curls with disgust.   
  
Prowl glares. “What do you really want from this? Change or chaos?”   
  
“Talking has gotten us nowhere.”   
  
“You’ve hardly tried!” Prowl’s voice echoes in the room, and he clamps his hands around his knees rather than bang a fist on the table. He glances around, but there’s no one close to them, save Soundwave, who appears to be guarding the exit.   
  
Well, at least this conversation is semi-private.   
  
Prowl settles in his chair and continues, “I understand. I’m angry, too. Change is slow to come, and mechs are dying faster than you can save them. But this path you’re on right now? It’s only ending in one way I can see, and that’s with everyone dying. You can be a hero who unites Cybertron for a better future, or you can be angry and divide it and be left with the ashes after your vengeance. Which do you want?”   
  
Megatron presses his lips in a thin line before he says, “The one’s in power will never listen without force.”   
  
“That may be true. But they’re not the ones you’re trying to convince.”   
  
Megatron cycles his optics. “Explain.”   
  
He’s actually  _listening_.   
  
A burst of something grows in Prowl’s spark. Hope, perhaps, that if he can get through to Megatron, perhaps real change can be effected. Perhaps what the Decepticons can accomplish will be more productive rather than destructive.   
  
Maybe there’s a chance.   
  
“The people, Megatron. The average mech,” Prowl says, careful to keep his tone even rather than chastising. “The ones who outnumber the Senate and the council and those who are in power. They are an unimaginable force. Cybertron wouldn’t function without the everyday mech. It’s them you need to convince, not the Senate.”   
  
Megatron stares at him for a long moment. He leans back in his chair as though understanding has dawned on him. “You understand then?”   
  
Prowl flattens his orbital ridges. “To what are you referring?”   
  
“Why I need you on my staff.” Megatron threads his hands together and folds them on his abdomen. He looks rather pleased with himself, smugness radiating from his field. “Myself, Soundwave, Starscream… We all come from a certain point of view. There are things we can’t understand.”   
  
“And you think I do?”   
  
“I know it.” Megatron gives him an appraising look. “You are steeped in law. You have studied it, mastered it, tried your very best to rise up within it, only to be kicked back down to your place by those who would seek to use you in a way they see fit and none other. You understand how mechs like the Senate and those who own us think. You can help us act within the boundaries of what’s legal.”   
  
Prowl snorts. “As if legality has stopped you before.”   
  
“True,” Megatron admits with a tip of his head. “But if a law is unjust, is that not a law which must be disobeyed? Laws are not permanent concepts which can never adapt. But the only way to change them is to challenge them.”   
  
“Somehow, I don’t think you mean in a court of law.”   
  
Megatron spreads his hands. “If we were given a legitimate voice, perhaps I would. But you know as well as I do that the Senate has no interest in letting the Decepticons be heard. They don’t want us to challenge the status quo. They don’t want change. And they absolutely do not want to lose their mindless workforce.”   
  
“Not everyone in the Senate is as corrupt as you think,” Prowl replies, thinking first of Shockwave, who has lobbied so hard for the disadvantaged and those capable of greater things.   
  
“They are few and far between.” Megatron cycles a ventilation and leans forward, hands clasped and elbows braced. “The Senate does not wish to listen. Therefore, there is but one path left to us, the one which you so openly disdain.”   
  
“Violence,” Prowl acknowledges. He presses his lips together, contemplating. “Revolutions can often not succeed without it. And yes, you’re right. The Senate will not loosen their claws without a fight. But you can’t ignore the civilian casualties. You can’t simply consider them collateral damage. You will lose support and damage your credibility.”   
  
“I cannot use an angry, unruly mob. I must have an army,” Megatron rephrases, with a curl of his lips suggesting he approves. “We would win with you, Prowl. You must see that.”   
  
Prowl works his intake. “I’m not sure what I see.”   
  
He flattens his hands on the table, gazing over Megatron’s shoulder at the shelves stacked with datapads full of ancient history and violence and death. He’s studied it extensively. He knows the weight of war and it’s penalties. He knows that every victory will feel hollow for the losses suffered.   
  
He also knows, at this point, fighting is inevitable.   
  
“This is no small decision,” Prowl continues. “This will change everything. Life as I know ceases to exist. My future becomes tenuous. Spontaneous.” The very idea of not having a plan makes his spark rattle in its chamber. “I don’t know yet if it’s the right thing.” He cocks his head and shifts his gaze to Megatron. “I don’t know I can trust you.”   
  
“That’s fair.” Megatron straightens, his expression softening. “But war is coming. You will have to choose a side. Either way, your future is tenuous. You can now only ask yourself if you want to fight to maintain the status quo, or if you want to fight for change.”   
  
“That’s not a question I can answer at this moment,” Prowl says, and not because he’s stalling for time, but because it’s perhaps the most important decision he could make in his entire functioning. “I need time to think.”   
  
“Time you can have. Not that it’s up to me to give you permission.” Amusement trickles into the edges of Megatron’s field.   
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation and glances to the main doorway. Soundwave still lurks there, his visor a baleful crimson. “And I’ll be allowed to walk away?”   
  
“Of course.” Megatron pauses and his field reaches out, touching Prowl, the edges of it offering reassurance and something like hope. “I need you, Prowl. But if you’re not committed to the cause, there’s little point. I can’t manipulate you. I can’t trick you. I can’t lie you into joining us. I need you to make the choice of your own accord or it’s meaningless.”   
  
“You put a lot of faith into someone you barely know,” Prowl comments. He pushes to his feet, the chair making a horrendous screech as the wheels roll back.   
  
Megatron looks up at him, and there’s something in his gaze Prowl can’t identify. “I know enough.” He withdraws a chip from subspace and sets it on the counter, pushing it toward Prowl with a tip of his finger. “My contact information. Should you have a question or have an answer, you can reach me there. It’s encrypted of course, and you won’t be able to use it to track me.”   
  
Prowl slips the chip off the table and stows it in an arm compartment for safekeeping. “I recognize the gesture of trust nonetheless.” His attention flicks to the box of goodies mostly forgotten in the middle of the table. “Feel free to keep those. Consider the rest my gratitude for ensuring I got home safely and unmolested.”   
  
“It was my pleasure.” Megatron chuckles. “If you need company again, you know the number.”   
  
“Indeed I do.” A flush of warmth wars with the chill of caution, fighting for dominance in his spark. “Thank you for the conversation. It was…”   
  
“Enlightening,” Megatron finishes for him. He presses his fingertips together, a glimmer of something in his optics.   
  
“Yes. That.” Prowl slides another step back from the table, feeling oddly reluctant to leave. “Perhaps we can debate again another time.”   
  
Megatron’s lips curve. “I’ll look forward to it.”   
  


***


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads-up! This chapter contains that wee bit of very brief nsfw that earned this fic the M-rating, and it is Sunstreaker/Sideswipe. :)

Sunstreaker has Sideswipe up against the wall, legs wrapped around Sunstreaker’s hips, his field urgent and hungry. He’s two vents from plunging into him when someone knocks on their door.   
  
Sunstreaker ignores it, mouthing hard at his brother’s neck, tasting the cables, the pulse of life. The stench of spilled energon and plasma discharge clings to both of them like expired perfume.   
  
“Come on, Sunny,” Sideswipe pants, clutching at his back, fingers digging into his seams, pressing hard at the cables beneath. The rock of his hips is a demand.   
  
The knock repeats, louder and more insistent.   
  
Sunstreaker growls.   
  
Sideswipe knocks his forehead on Sunstreaker’s shoulder. “It’s probably Slipshod with our earnings,” he groans. “Of course he’d pick now to be early.”   
  
“He can wait,” Sunstreaker insists, tightening his grip on Sideswipe’s aft, rolling his hips to leave a wet smear of lubricant.   
  
“He starts taking higher cuts when we make him wait,” Sideswipe reminds him.   
  
Sunstreaker’s engine revs. He reluctantly puts Sideswipe down. “Stay,” he says with a palm against his brother’s chestplate, pushing his back against the wall.   
  
Sideswipe smirks and holds up his hands. “Whatever you say, master.” He offers an exaggerated wink.   
  
Aft.   
  
Sunstreaker stomps to the door and doesn’t bother to stow his equipment because he can’t. He’s too revved. If Slipshod hadn’t wanted an opticful, he shouldn’t have been early.   
  
He slams his palm on the door. “What?” he demands and the anger flares brighter when he realizes it’s not Slipshod on the other side of it.   
  
Instead, it’s a smirking Seeker, leaning casually into the frame, arms folded over his cockpit.   
  
“Why hello, is that for me?” Starscream purrs with a long look up and down Sunstreaker’s frame, gaze lingering on Sunstreaker’s bare equipment. “I’m flattered really. But don’t you think that’s a little too fast for us?”   
  
“Starscream,” Sunstreaker growls. “What are you doing here?”   
  
Starscream pushes off the frame. He tries to peer past Sunstreaker’s shoulder. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? I brought your pay.” He pauses and his optics flash. “Trust me, what I have to say, you don’t want said here in the hallway.”   
  
“We don’t trust you,” Sideswipe says from behind Sunstreaker’s shoulder. He pats Sunstreaker on the back. “Let him in, bro.”   
  
Sunstreaker shifts out of the doorway and snatches up a meshtowel from a pile near the door. They’re dirty, covered in filth and energon from the haphazard wipe he and Sideswipe had given themselves after the bout. But it’s better than nothing. Sunstreaker drops down into a chair and drapes it over his lap as Starscream slinks into their closet-sized room and the door shuts behind him.   
  
“Here,” Starscream says. “Your earnings.” He flicks a datachip at Sideswipe who plucks it out of the air.  
  
“Why do you have it?” Sunstreaker demands.   
  
Starscream smirks and plants a hand on his hip. “Really? You two don’t honestly think you can fight in one of Megatron’s arenas and not get noticed? Especially since the last time you were here, it was with an Enforcer.”   
  
“No one knew he was an Enforcer,” Sideswipe counters as he plugs the datachip into a reader to check the balance. “And he was invited.”   
  
“Mm. Yes he was.” A look of irritation crosses Starscream’s face. Ahh. Someone’s not fond of Prowl’s recruitment. Good to know. “That’s Megatron’s little pet project.”  
  
Sunstreaker exchanges a glance with Sideswipe that speaks more than words. “That still doesn’t answer why you’re here,” he says pointedly.   
  
“I have a proposition for you, of course,” Starscream says, and his gaze drops to Sunstreaker’s lap and the meshtowel draping it. “Though not the one you’re hoping for, I’m sure.”   
  
Sideswipe nods a confirmation over the datachip before stowing both away. “And we’re going to tell you the same thing we told the last recruiter. We’re not interested.” He moves behind Sunstreaker, draping his arms over Sunstreaker’s shoulders and pressing his chest to Sunstreaker’s back.   
  
“You’re sure about that?” Starscream tilts his head and tucks his hands behind his back. He looks around the small room, frowning, probably at the mess and squalor. “What if your friend were to join us? Would that change your mind?”   
  
“Even if it did, we wouldn’t tell you,” Sideswipe says. He slides a hand down Sunstreaker’s chestplate, palm flat over the seam bisecting his hood. “We’re not that easy to sway.”   
  
“Besides, you have enough grunts,” Sunstreaker adds with a scowl. “We’re not cannon fodder.”   
  
Starscream’s lips curve. “You think I make it a habit to personally recruit cannon fodder? That’s what the other mooks are for. I personally invite those who could serve a, shall we say, greater purpose.”   
  
“And what purpose would that be?” Sideswipe asks.   
  
Starscream idly peers through the sad excuse for a window, which looks out on a dirty alley. “If Megatron’s plan works and we acquire a tactician in the form of your friend, there will be backlash from both sides of the equation. He’ll need a keeper.”   
  
Sideswipe’s field flickers with anger. Sunstreaker’s echoes it.   
  
“You want us to protect him,” Sunstreaker says.   
  
“In part.” Starscream’s grin is sly. He crosses the floor slowly, aiming for the door. “We also have a task force that we think you’d be uniquely suited for. Not quite special operations. It’s a little more visible than that. But I assure you, it’s not because we intend for you to die nameless on a battlefield.”   
  
Sideswipe snorts, and his fingers curl against Sunstreaker’s chestplate. “Nice to know you care, since you don’t seem to be bothered by the deaths of the nameless thousands you’ve taken into your fold.”   
  
Starscream shrugs, and his wings flick. “There will always be sacrifices.” He cycles an audible ventilation. “Let’s face it. These mechs would have died anyway. Whether from overwork or overdose. At least this way, they are dying for a better future, for something they believe in.”   
  
“If that’s what you tell yourself to recharge at night,” Sunstreaker mutters. He leans back, soaking in his brother’s embrace. “We’re not buying what you’re selling, Decepticon.”  
  
“I’m offering you an opportunity,” Starscream says, drawling the syllables of the last word. If their refusals anger him, he doesn’t show it. “A chance to be on the winning team. Unless you prefer fighting for the very mechs who keep you shackled.”   
  
“Not sure how ‘free’ we’d be under your master.” Sideswipe shrugs, Sunstreaker feeling the motion against his upper back. “But tell you what, get Prowl to cross over, and we’ll be right there with him.”   
  
Sunstreaker smirks. “Wherever Prowl goes, that’s the winning team. So until he moves, we’re staying put.”   
  
Irritation flickers over Starscream’s face, and his wingtips twitch. “Whatever did he do to earn such loyalty and faith?”   
  
“None of your business,” Sideswipe says, his tone so painfully cheery it’s obviously fake. It’s his favorite method of slagging someone off.   
  
Sunstreaker braces. As he’s learned to do when Sideswipe starts running his mouth and causing trouble, inevitably leading to a scrap or two.   
  
Starscream, however, merely chuckles. “Fair enough.” He kicks a heel against the floor before sliding toward the door, one hand hovering by the lock. “I’ll leave you be then. Until Megatron’s little experiment fails or succeeds.”   
  
The door slides open, letting in dingy light from the corridor. Starscream casts a winged shadow back into the room.   
  
“See you soon,” he purrs, and then he’s gone.   
  
“Finally,” Sideswipe grunts and sags against Sunstreaker’s back as though someone cut his strings, and he can’t hold himself upright anymore. “Thought he’d never leave.” He tucks his face against Sunstreaker’s neck, ex-venting hot and wet.   
  
Sunstreaker presses the knuckles of one hand to his mouth. “He’s not wrong,” he comments against his knuckles, staring off into space, seeing without seeing.   
  
Sideswipe sighs and knocks his forehead against the nape of Sunstreaker’s neck. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Wherever Prowl goes, remember?”   
  
“Yeah.” Sunstreaker reaches behind him with his free hand, cupping the back of his brother’s head.   
  
“Good.” Sideswipe’s lips curve in a tangible grin against Sunstreaker’s nape. He slides back, circles Sunstreaker and whipping away the dirty meshcloth he’d used as a drape.   
  
Sunstreaker’s spike remains half-pressurized, liberally slick with his own pre-fluid. Sideswipe drags a finger up the length of him, and Sunstreaker shivers, watching his brother with heat in his optics.   
  
“Still ready for me,” Sideswipe murmurs and drops down into Sunstreaker’s lap, thighs bracketing Sunstreaker’s hips. He drapes his arms over Sunstreaker’s shoulders, shimmying close until their chestplates bump.   
  
“Now I think we were in the middle of something,” Sideswipe says, all cheeky need and teasing as he licks Sunstreaker’s cheek. “Don’t leave me hanging, bro.”   
  
Sunstreaker huffs a laugh and cradles Sideswipe’s hips, squeezing them. He nuzzles his brother’s cheek, angling for a kiss.   
  
This is so much simpler than the war brewing outside the door. And right now, Sunstreaker can use simple.   
  


~

  
  
Prowl throws himself back into the investigation after his meeting with Megatron. He has to prove the Decepticons are innocent. He’s certain, down to his very protoform, Megatron is not behind this. But someone out there is playing a very dangerous political game, and there are sparks at stake. Innocent sparks.   
  
He starts with the list Senator Shockwave gave him. There are a dozen names on it: two of which are no longer viable as they are already deceased. He’s spoken with Shockwave already. That leaves nine more potential victims, nine potential leaks, nine possible informants.   
  
No one’s been nominated to take Bracket and Deltus’ place. Perhaps no one dares. Have they made the connection between the victims yet? If so, no one announces it. Not even the news has given motive to their Decepticon accusations.   
  
Prowl starts at the top and works his way down. Senator Sherma is the lead of the committee. He’s a smarmy, self-righteous aft, and Prowl’s armor crawls in the mech’s presence.   
  
There’s history here. History Prowl doesn’t like remembering. Sherma had lobbied to keep Prowl as a soldier, as hard as Shockwave had fought for Prowl’s frame exemption.   
  
“Mechs need to understand their place,” Sherma had said back then, lips twisted into a sneer of disgust. “They need to realize where they belong, lest they think themselves greater than their betters.”   
  
“We need him,” Shockwave had argued. “It would be a waste.”   
  
Sherma had tipped up his nose. “If he were meant to be an Enforcer, he would have been sparked one.”   
  
He’s no more respectful of Prowl now. If anything, he speaks with thinly concealed loathing, and his disdain for Shockwave is evident in every word from his lips.   
  
“He should have never given you that list,” Sherma says with a hard glare and a thin line serving as his mouth. He glares at Prowl’s datapad as though it has personally offended him. “The committee is classified.”   
  
Prowl holds his ground. He’s standing because Sherma has not offered him a chair. “Clearly not classified enough as there are now two members who are dead, and the committee links them.”   
  
“Pah.” Sherma rolls his optics and flicks a hand. “They’re both in politics. It could be anything that connects them. You’re seeing a pattern where there isn’t one.” He chuffs a ventilation. “Of course, failure is what happens when you let a navvy rise above its station.”  
  
Anger flushes Prowl’s spark. He swallows it down with cold disregard. “Motivations for murder are often linked to a specific connection, not a broad one.”   
  
“Motivation,” Sherma echoes, and he snorts. “They were killed by the Decepticons if I recall. That’s motivation enough.” He pauses and peers at Prowl through narrow slits. “But of course, you know better, don’t you? Have to stir up trouble where there isn’t none to prove you belong, is that it?”   
  
It takes all of Prowl’s control not to let his sensory panels flick. “I merely prefer to explore all avenues of possibility so we aren’t caught off guard,” he says, holding to politeness with iron will. “I am thorough.”   
  
“You mean you enjoy riding the clock and wasting everyone’s time.” Sherma scoffs and leans back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. He spins a stylus with his free hand. “It was the Decepticons, plain and simple. They aren’t picking their targets based on a committee no one knows exists. They’re attacking whoever is convenient. That’s it.”   
  
Prowl’s hand tightens around his stylus. “For someone who is not a trained investigator, you sound certain. You’re not at all concerned you may be next?”   
  
Sherma’s optics flash. His feet hit the floor, and he leans forward. “Is that a threat, Enforcer Prowl?”   
  
“No, sir. It is merely a logical question.” Prowl flicks his sensory panels. “Two members of the committee are dead. If I am right and said committee is the link, it stands to reason the other participants are on a hit list of some kind.”   
  
Sherma’s jaw tightens. “I think it’s time time you left.” He rises, his height only somewhat greater than Prowl’s. “I’ve entertained your foolish notions long enough. I have no more time to waste on one of Shockwave’s failing experiments.”   
  
“I am neither an experiment nor am I a failure,” Prowl replies, his tone sharper than he intended, but the insult feels like a knife to the abdomen, cutting into everything he’d been asking himself since Chancellor Bracket’s murder first fell into his lap.   
  
“You are both, and I’ve told you to leave,” Sherma snaps, his tone an order, as though he’s Prowl’s superior. “I’ll not stand here for your wild theories, your accusations, your thinly veiled  _threats_.”   
  
Prowl’s vents hiss. “No, you’d much rather sit there in your arrogance, so certain nothing can touch you that you are blind to all else.”   
  
Sherma’s jaw sets. Anger flashes in his field, broiling through the room. He slams a palm on the intercom, refusing to take his gaze from Prowl for a single moment. “Compute, call security. Enforcer Prowl will need an escort out of the building.”  
  
Prowl’s engine rumbles. “That won’t be necessary. I can see myself out.” He spins on a heel and strides toward the door, every inch of his frame vibrating with anger.   
  
“Your commanding officer will be hearing of this, rest assured,” Sherma calls after him, sly and triumphant. “I do hope you enjoy being sent back where you belong.”   
  
Thankfully, the door shuts before Prowl can retort with something ill-advised. He’s already facing a demerit from Silverspire – since he’s quite sure Sherma won’t forget to make that call. He can’t worsen matters by being further rude.   
  
Instead, he sits in a quiet corner of the ground floor lobby and meditates long enough to get his emotions in check. He’s got eight more potential victims to question, he’s got two murders to solve, and something tells him he’s running out of time.   
  
He’s better than this, better than Sherma’s taunts. He’s a good investigator, a better Enforcer. He was granted a frame exemption for a reason.   
  
He’s meant to be more.   
  
He just has to prove it.   
  


~

  
  
The stack of datapads near Megatron’s left elbow wobbles dangerously. He reaches out to steady it without giving the stack a second glance.   
  
It’s much smaller than it had been when he first started, but the size of it remains daunting. Soundwave is nothing if not thorough and productive. There are few in the stack Megatron has had to reject.   
  
Soundwave knows all too well who would suit the Decepticons and who would not. He understands their weaknesses, what they need to bolster. He has fingers and optics and audials in all corners of Cybertron. His network has stretched as far as Praxus to find them allies, and he’s been successful.   
  
There’s a scientist who’s proving to be quite promising. The Senate keeps threatening to withdraw his funding because of his… unique proposals. The potential in said proposals could work in the Decepticon’s favor.   
  
Megatron assigns Starscream to recruit this Mesothulas for the time being.   
  
A rap of knuckles over his door announces a visitor. Odd because only strangers knock. Starscream strolls inside, usually with some loud comment. Soundwave slinks inside and waits quietly to be noticed.   
  
Megatron looks up. An unfamiliar mech lurks in his doorway, but judging by the heavy armor and his bearing, he’s military. There are bare patches on his shoulders, like badges which have been removed. Stripped of rank? Or voluntarily removed?   
  
“Can I help you?” Megatron asks.   
  
This stranger cannot have slipped in here without being noticed. Which means he’s been sent by Soundwave. Perhaps his designation is one of those in the stack of datapads by Megatron’s left elbow.   
  
“I was told to find Megatron if I wanted to seek employment,” the mech says with a dark, dark voice Megatron’s only heard from fellow miners. There is gravel in it.   
  
“By?” Megatron quirks an orbital ridge.   
  
The mech laughs, but it’s short and stunted, more of a grunt. “A very strange mech with an avian mini on his shoulder.” He ducks in through the doorway, his visor casting a sharp amber gleam across it. “Apparently while a dishonorable discharge gets you shunned by your peers, it’s an invitation to a position of honor within the Decepticons.”   
  
Ah, that answers that.   
  
“Depends on the motive behind it,” Megatron says. He gestures to the chair across from him, though on second look, it doesn’t appear to be large enough for this mech’s bulk. “Have a seat.”   
  
The mech slants a look at it. “I’ll stand.” He crosses his arms over his chassis. “You weren’t expecting me, I take it.”   
  
Megatron looks at his stack of datapads. “You’re designation might be somewhere among these.”  
  
“Onslaught,” the mech supplies. He tilts his head, expression inscrutable behind both mask and visor. “Formerly Commander Onslaught of the Beta-Niner Regiment out of Alyon.”   
  
Guardian of a now defunct hot spot. How intriguing.   
  
Megatron rests his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers together. “And what precipitated your discharge?”   
  
Amusement spikes in the mech’s field before it withdraws. “Difference of opinion with my superior officers.” He shifts his weight. “Rumor has it you’re fighting for a new Cybertron. I want a part of it.”   
  
“You don’t need much convincing, I see.” Megatron doesn’t recall seeing Onslaught’s name amongst the files, but then, there are so many he hasn’t gotten to yet. “How do I know you’ve not been sent to spy?”   
  
Onslaught draws in a loud vent. “You don’t.” His tone is blunt. “But I’m told you’re in need of a tactician, and that happens to be my specialty.” He rolls his shoulders. “You can do all the investigating you like. I’m sure your spy already has. Test me if you want. I’ve got nothing left to lose.”   
  
Megatron presses his lips together. He considers Onslaught. Had Soundwave sent him here as a back up plan in case they are unable to recruit Prowl? Or is he a secondary resource no matter what the outcome?   
  
Prowl is more representative of the civilian militia. They’ve yet to recruit anyone from the military. Or at least, anyone of any former prominence. Footsoldiers and cannon fodder, yes. But few with experience. Most soldiers with experience are very, very loyal to the senate and high council.   
  
“A trial period then,” Megatron says as he lowers his hands and starts thumbing through the stack of datapads, searching for Onslaught’s. “To see if your skills are even worth the risk we take on you.”   
  
Onslaught unfolds his arms. “That’s fair. Who shall I report to?”   
  
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Megatron’s lips twitch as he considers Onslaught. “Nightstalker, I think, will best suit you for now. You can find him by the training grounds.” Though to call them such is being generous. “I suspect Soundwave will find you soon enough, to… corroborate some of your intentions.”   
  
Light flashes in Onslaught’s visor. “Understood.” He takes a step back toward the door without taking his gaze off Megatron. “This is a revolution I wish to see succeed, Megatron. Mark my words.”   
  
“Consider them marked.” His hands find Onslaught’s datapad, and Megatron draws it closer, intending to examine it thoroughly. “Welcome aboard, Onslaught.”   
  


~

  
  
Prowl is on a transport, on his way to an interview with Judge Steelwool, when the call comes in. He’s tapped into the broadcast per the usual, since he’s on the clock and actively working a case, so he picks up the call before Silverspire can contact him.   
  
His energon runs cold.   
  
He disembarks on the next stop, shifts to alt-mode, and dives into traffic, lights and sirens blazing as he screeches back the way he came. Vehicles swerve out of his path as Prowl ignores as many speed limits as he can, spark hammering, and despair trickling through him.   
  
Senator Sherma is dead.   
  
It had been only yesterday when Prowl interviewed the Senator and had his warnings summarily dismissed. Prowl would never admit aloud, but he takes a certain triumph in knowing he’d been right, despite Sherma’s insistence otherwise.   
  
He supposes he should mourn Sherma’s death.   
  
He doesn’t.   
  
He has to investigate it, however. The case isn’t his, but Prowl expects it to land on his shoulders. Especially if it follows the pattern of the other two.   
  
By the time he arrives at Topaz Estates, the massive suite complex Sherma calls home, Silverspire pings his comm to let him know of the murder.   
  
“I’m aware,” Prowl answers as he flicks his sensory panels, displaying his Enforcer badge, and the grunt waves him in. “I got the call on my way to interview Judge Steelwool. I’m already here.”  
  
“Well at least you’re proactive,” Silverspire grunts. “Initial reports suggest it matches the same circumstances as the murders of Bracket and Deltus. Which means we’ve got a serial or someone’s trying to make a statement.”   
  
Prowl slips into the lift, poking the bottom for the near-penthouse suite. “I suspect it’s the latter. I’ll know more after I visit the scene.”   
  
“Three deaths, Prowl. Three. Do I need to put someone else on this case? Because there won’t be a fourth,” Silverspire says.   
  
Anger flashes hot and bright. He swallows it down, the sour-rust taste of it. “No, sir. I’m close. I know I am. Sherma’s death will be the last.”   
  
“It had better be.”   
  
The comm ends, leaving Prowl with dead air. The lift dings and deposits him on the appropriate floor. Prowl takes a moment to vent before he steps out and is waved through a sea of precinct mechs from forensics and investigative services. They point the way.   
  
Sherma’s in the main room, sprawled in front of the open balcony. He’s face down, two neat holes drilled through his back – spark and t-cog most likely. His head, or what’s left of it, is a spray of viscera, metal and bits of brain module and fluids soaking the thick carpet beneath him.   
  
There’s no sign of a struggle. The door hadn’t appeared jimmied. The balcony door is untouched. Drips of cerebral fluid along the bottom suggest it was closed when Sherma was killed.   
  
It looks like an execution.   
  
Prowl crouches to examine Sherma without touching the mess. He can’t see any clear signs of a struggle. No scrape marks in the otherwise immaculate paint. No gouges or dents.   
  
The wounds are crisp. Clean. They suggest a blaster, standard Enforcer issue, just like the other victims. They’re accurate. The killer hadn’t needed extra shots. He’s someone who’s comfortable with a gun, who’s had training.   
  
Prowl stands and turns in a slow circle, taking in the room. Everything is in order. No overturned furniture, the vidscreen is still on, showing the daily news at a low volume. There’s a glass sitting by a large, comfortable chair, half-full with what a tentative sniff identifies as expensive engex.   
  
On the wall, painted over artwork that no doubt costs more than Prowl’s yearly salary, is a Decepticon brand, lurid and purple.   
  
Not so much of a coincidence now, is it?   
  
Prowl stares at the dripping Decepticon sigil, still so fresh it shines in spots, and dribbles of paint slowly creep toward the floor.   
  
It was someone Sherma either knew or trusted. Someone he’d let into his home without worry for his safety. Just as it had been with Bracket and Deltus. It was someone whom he’d let down his guard enough to be killed without struggle.   
  
The triple-tap was unnecessary. It was someone who hated Sherma and wanted to ensure there’s little chance of his survival.   
  
Someone… like Prowl.   
  
Ice washes into his system then. He staggers under the weight of the realization, optics cycling wide, ventilations fluttering.   
  
The missing piece of the puzzle clicks into place.   
  
Prowl gathers his composure, walks as if in a dream toward the balcony. There’s no one out there right now, and the noise of the city below crashes over him like a background track to the thoughts racing through his head.   
  
The connection isn’t the Decepticons. They’re just a smokescreen. The connection is  _him_ , it’s Prowl.   
  
Minister Deltus had been present at the sparking of Prowl’s batch. He’d presided over it, ushering each new spark toward it’s decided role. He’d been the one who sent Prowl on the road to becoming a soldier, though in the end, Prowl had managed to escape it.   
  
Deltus had argued against Prowl’s exemption, just like Sherma.   
  
Bracket presided over the training program Prowl was obligated to attend if he wanted to be an Enforcer. He’d not been happy that a frame-exempt was in the classes, and Prowl wouldn’t be surprised if Bracket was the one responsible for how difficult Prowl’s classes were. He also had a voice in who was promoted, and was probably responsible for every one of Prowl’s rejections.   
  
Then of course, Sherma. Whom Prowl had argued with only yesterday. Who had called and reported rudeness to Silverspire. Who felt as though Prowl had made a threat.   
  
Primus below.   
  
Prowl hunches and grips the balcony rail. He offlines his optics. All three had been killed by a blaster consistent with that of the standard Enforcer allocation. All three knew their killer, trusted him. And who wouldn’t trust an Enforcer?   
  
Even the Decepticon sigil makes sense. What else would an intelligent Enforcer do if trying to shift the blame to a party everyone is already primed to hate?   
  
Prowl would arrest himself at this point. Or at least, bring himself in for questioning. It makes sense, and if he weren’t the one assigned to work the case, he’d have connected the dots already. He still wonders how he missed it.   
  
This has never been about the Decepticons.   
  
He has to go.   
  
Prowl pushes away from the rail and spins back toward the suite. He strides through it, not sparing Sherma another glance, and refusing to make optical contact with anyone. When the forensics come back, he has a feeling the evidence isn’t going to do him any favors.   
  
Maybe this time, there’s video surveillance. Maybe there’s a grainy image that shows some black and white mech coming to visit Sherma. And maybe that mech has sensory panels and a chevron. It’s cheap enough these days to get a partial kibble transplant and a repaint to look like someone else.   
  
Sunstreaker could do it easily. Not that he would.   
  
When was Sherma killed? It doesn’t matter. Prowl’s sure it’s for a time he doesn’t have an alibi, or if he does, it’s one he can’t repeat.   
  
Silverspire’s warnings ring at the back of his head. He’s always asked for too much, pushed for more than anyone wanted to allow him. He hasn’t ever been satisfied with the status quo. He always reaches for a higher calling. He isn’t content to stay in his place.   
  
No wonder he’s being framed. By who? Prowl supposes it doesn’t matter. They’re not going to believe him.   
  
It’s only a matter of time before they arrest him.   
  
Prowl doesn’t run out of Sherma’s tower-suite, but it’s a near thing. Out in front of the building, he’s at a loss for what to do next. He has few friends, fewer allies. He tries calling Shockwave and is sent to the senator’s messaging system. Even Shockwave’s receptionist doesn’t know how to contact his superior.   
  
No one’s heard from Shockwave in several days.   
  
Prowl had visited Shockwave also.   
  
Are the two connected? Probably. But it’s not Prowl’s case. It’s missing persons and as much as he’d like to dial the precinct and figure out whose case it is, something tells Prowl there won’t be any answers.   
  
Does he dare try Orion Pax? Would the renowned, highly decorated officer even believe him? Orion is the shining star of his district. He’s protected in ways Prowl isn’t. Does Prowl trust him with the truth?   
  
No. He doesn’t. He  _can’t_.   
  
For lack of options, Prowl turns to the nearest transport station. He’ll return home, to his apartment. There’s still time. No one suspects him yet. He’s still lead on the case. Though once he doesn’t come up with a designation, Silverspire will force a partner on him, someone who will put the pieces together, if they’re smart enough.   
  
Whoever is doing this, whoever is framing Prowl, they’ll make sure of it. They’ll assign Streetwise or Muzzle, two forged mechs with impeccable records. They’re both good mechs, good detectives. They’ll connect the dots much faster than Prowl, Streetwise especially. They’ll quickly paint him as the criminal.   
  
He doesn’t have much time.   
  
He doesn’t have any time at all.   
  


***


	8. Chapter 8

Megatron steps out of the washrack, still dripping, and nearly collides with Soundwave, who has a grave expression on his face. For all that Soundwave can have expressions.   
  
Laserbeak sits on his shoulder, head docked, wings ruffled. “Trouble,” he squawks.   
  
“What’s going on?” Megatron flicks a meshtowel over his frame, wiping up spots of lingering solvent.   
  
Soundwave hands him a datapad without a word. It’s already online and tuned to a news channel. The headline catches Megatron’s optic.   
  
“Senator Sherma dead! The Decepticons claim another victim!”   
  
Megatron frowns. “This was not us,” he murmurs, but no doubt Soundwave already knows as much. There is precious few secrets between them. “I take it he’s another on the committee?”   
  
Soundwave tilts his head in a nod.   
  
“Damn.” Megatron hands the datapad back. He sweeps a hand over his head, tossing the mesh cloth into a corner. “You’re certain Ratbat isn’t behind this?”   
  
“Affirmative.” Soundwave follows as Megatron abandons his sleeping quarters and slides into the narrow closet he uses as an office. They move around too much for him to have anything like a permanent home.   
  
He can’t be too comfortable when half of Cybertron’s leadership wants him dead on sight.   
  
“Who has the case?”   
  
“Prowl.”   
  
“Of course.” Megatron cycles a ventilation and logs into his console, seeking out the most recent news reports. “You know, he’s right. If we can’t get the will of the average mech on our side, there’s no point. This sort of accusation will lose us the support of the citizenry faster than anything else.”  
  
Soundwave hovers over his right shoulder, but doesn’t try to take Megatron’s search for himself. “Offer assistance to Enforcer Prowl?”   
  
Megatron rubs a hand around his mouth. “If he’ll accept it. We can at least prove we’re on his side and we’re not to blame.” He nods decisively. “That’s a good plan. I’ll contact him later and see if he agrees.”   
  
No sooner does he speak than his comm chimes. Megatron straightens, expecting it to be Starscream, reporting in on their newest potential recruits. But no, the ident code reads Prowl, and that’s most unexpected.   
  
Prowl never reaches out first.   
  
“Well, speak of the Enforcer,” Megatron murmurs. He answers the ping as he swivels in his chair to face Soundwave. “Prowl. What an unexpected and yet pleasant surprise.”   
  
“It’s not pleasant for me,” Prowl replies, his tone dark and heavy, lacking any trace of amusement. “I have a question for you.”   
  
Megatron straightens, casting Soundwave a pointed look. Soundwave nods and tilts his head, visor dimming. Prowl won’t know he’s there, but Soundwave will at least be able to pick up on nuances Megatron might miss.   
  
“And I have an answer,” Megatron replies smoothly. “What can I do for you?”   
  
“Are you aware Senator Sherma was killed sometime last night?” Prowl asks.   
  
“I am. And before you ask, no, we are not responsible.”   
  
Prowl sighs into the comm. “I know. Because neither am I.”   
  
Megatron’s forehead crinkles. He exchanges a confused glance with Soundwave. “What do you mean?”   
  
There’s a long moment of silence, as though Prowl is debating with himself once more before he says, “Is your offer still valid?”   
  
Triumph surges through Megatron’s spark. He’s up on his feet before the words leave his mouth, “There is a place for you in my organization, if you want it,” he says, excitement making it impossible for him to be still, and it takes all he has to mask it in his voice. “Might I ask why?”   
  
“It’s too complicated to discuss over a comm. Suffice to say, it’s quite clear there’s not a place for me anymore.” Prowl’s tone shifts to something soft and defeated. “Right now, the only future I have left is the one you and your Decepticons can hopefully bring.”   
  
Megatron looks at Soundwave who nods. Prowl is telling the truth. This isn’t a subterfuge, a means to trap Megatron and cripple the Decepticons.   
  
“I understand.”   
  
Soundwave taps Megatron’s arm and slides a datapad into view. There’s a time and place written on the screen.   
  
“I assume you’ll want time to get your affairs in order,” Megatron continues, trying to focus while his processor spins the possibilities of victory one after another. “What say we meet at Saberfall Gardens after the morning rush tomorrow?”   
  
“That will suffice.”   
  
Megatron grins and hopes his glee isn’t audible through the comm. “Then I will see you tomorrow, Prowl. Welcome to the team.”   
  
 _Click_.   
  
Megatron chuckles. “He’s so polite.” He slides back into his chair, his internals jittering with delight and triumph. “Well? Thoughts?”   
  
Soundwave straightens, and though his mouth isn’t visible, there’s an impression of a frown in the tilt of his head. “Prowl out of options.”   
  
“Yes, I agree.” Megatron braces an elbow on the arm of the chair. “The situation is not ideal. He’s probably using us to run from something, but that’s not a problem. If he trusts me enough to come to me for aid, then he’ll be one of us not long after. I’m sure of it.”   
  
“Permission to investigate?” Soundwave asks as Laserbeak cocks his head, and Soundwave reaches up to scratch him under the chin.  
  
Megatron flicks a hand and swivels back to his console. “Find out what Prowl’s running from. I want to know what danger snaps at his heels and what we’re taking on.”   
  
“Understood.” Soundwave eases into the doorway, Laserbeak shuffling around on his shoulder. “Arrangements to be made for Prowl’s arrival also.”   
  
“I trust you to take care of it.” Megatron pauses and raps his fingers on the desktop. “I’ll handle Starscream.”   
  
A snort of laughter bubbles out of Soundwave’s chassis. “Reinforcements needed?”   
  
Megatron snorts and rolls his optics. “Thanks, but I can handle him.”   
  
Starscream will be miffed, but he’ll get over it. He’s known of their intentions to get Prowl on board. He knows they need Prowl’s tactical expertise and political knowledge. He knows the Decepticons need all the bright minds they can gather.   
  
Soundwave chuffs a vent of disbelief.   
  
There’s a first time for everything.   
  


~

  
  
It is surprisingly easy to pack.   
  
Perhaps because there is little in the sterility of his suite that holds any value to Prowl, sentimental or otherwise.   
  
He has some image captures, easily stored on a datachip. He takes his weapons, both his handgun and a few others he’s indulged in over the decades. His datapads are replaceable, especially since he can’t remember when he last had free time to enjoy them. He doesn’t need to bring cleaning supplies.   
  
He might as well have been living in a hotel for all this apartment means to him. There’s nothing here he can’t bear to lose. There’s nothing in his life he is upset to leave behind.   
  
His career? It’s going nowhere fast. Silverspire and all of his superiors ensure as much. The situation at hand is further proof.   
  
He could stay. He could fight. He could try and prove his innocence. He knows running only makes him guilty. He knows there is no return, not after this.   
  
But really, what’s left?   
  
No friends, no family, no co-workers.   
  
Nothing.   
  
He’s lived for work, and it’s gotten him nothing and nowhere.   
  
At least with the Decepticons there’s a chance. He could do something, change something. If he can get Megatron to listen to him, with the might of the Decepticons and the people, they can change the planet.   
  
It’s worth it.   
  
Prowl debates whether he should report to the office before he meets Megatron. Silverspire will want an initial report on Sherma’s murder. It’s a surprise that he hasn’t commed Prowl already with a demand for an appearance.   
  
Should he pretend all is business as usual before he vanishes? Will the effort matter?  
  
Prowl supposes it doesn’t.   
  
Nothing ever really mattered.   
  
The appointed time comes. Prowl gathers his belongings, but it all fits into subspace, there’s so little of it. He stands in the doorway of his hab and looks over his shoulder, seeing nothing of himself he’s leaving behind.   
  
It’s something of a revelation.   
  
Prowl shakes his head and departs, the door locking shut behind him. He won’t miss this place. It was never home.   
  
He’s not sure what home feels like anyway.   
  
Prowl rides the lift down to the front floor lobby. The main desk is empty, which is unusual for this time of day. Perhaps the attendant had stepped away for a moment. A soft music plays through the overhead speakers, but no one loiters in the news stand or the in-house energon vendor.   
  
It’s deserted.   
  
Prowl’s gait slows. He frowns and flicks his sensory panels, trying to read the latent energies, but there’s nothing to be found. Not even a blip of an idle comm. Has someone activated a sensor dampener?  
  
The front doors slide open, and Prowl turns toward the first sign of life. Ice slushes through his lines in the same moment.   
  
“Prowl,” Silverspire greets him, but there’s nothing pleasant in his tone or his expression. He’s flanked by a half-dozen other Enforcers, two of whom have their blasters trained on Prowl. “I wondered if we’d see you in the office this morning. Imagine my surprise when you didn’t show.”   
  
Prowl calculates his odds. “I’m running late,” he lies. “What brings you here, Silverspire? I’m not aware of a call to my building.”   
  
The Enforcers spread out, clearly surrounding Prowl. It’s too late, he realizes. It was probably too late by the time he had his realization.   
  
“There isn’t. Though we are here because we have a warrant,” Silverspire says. Everything about his tone, his expression, his field, reads sly and triumphant. “To arrest you, to be perfectly clear.”   
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation and feigns ignorance. It strikes him how he suddenly feels a kinship with the offenders he’s arrested. “On what grounds?”   
  
“Communicating with known criminals for starters.” Silverspire tucks his hands behind his back and strides forward slowly, as if measuring each step. “Tampering with evidence. Conspiracy to commit murder. Three counts of first-degree murder. There’s more. Shall I go on?”  
  
“That’s quite the lengthy list already,” Prowl says, holding to his composure with a will made of duryllium. “Upon whose authority are you executing the warrant.”   
  
Silverspire’s smile lengthens until it shows a row of neat, even denta. “The Most Honorable Ironstock.” The capitalizations are apparent.   
  
Of course.   
  
Prowl’s expression is a mask of neutrality, but inside the rage swirls in a maelstrom. Judge Ironstock has always loathed Prowl. He’d squirmed out of a conspiracy hearing decades ago because Prowl’s two witnesses had turned up dead, but Ironstock never forgot the humiliation. Just as Prowl never stopped trying to find irrefutable evidence Ironstock was dirty.   
  
‘ _You rattle too many cages, Prowl,’ Tumbler had said to him over dinner one night, his field one of worry and exasperation. ‘One of these days, those cages are going to rattle back.’  
  
‘That doesn’t even make sense.’   
  
‘You know what I mean.’_   
  
Silverspire is within grabbing range now, though Prowl has few illusions of making an effective escape. “He was a little concerned he might be next, you see. Since it appears you have something of a hit list.”   
  
“I am not responsible for those murders,” Prowl says.   
  
Silverspire holds up a hand. “If I were you, I wouldn’t speak without a lawyer present.” He tilts his head. “You were sloppy, Prowl. Working with the Decepticons? That’s low, even for you.”   
  
He isn’t going to bother to ask how Silverspire knows. Prowl’s communications have probably been tapped for a long, long time. Even if he hadn’t made the call to Megatron last night, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He has little doubt they know about his trip to Slaughter City, about meeting Megatron at the Leaky Spigot and at the Collective.   
  
He’s been trapped for weeks. He just didn’t know it.   
  
“Your information is flawed,” Prowl informs Silverspire, though he knows it’s pointless. But if there’s a scrap of honor in Silverspire’s frame, perhaps there’s a modicum of doubt. “Whatever conspiracy you’ve been fed, I promise you, sir. I did not kill those mechs.”   
  
Silverspire’s optics flash. “Notice you did not deny the communications.”   
  
“Because to do so would be a lie.” Prowl holds his ground. “Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are informants. We all have them. As for my conversations with Megatron, I was under the impression we were trying to communicate with the Decepticons in a positive manner. Or has that directive changed?”   
  
“Don’t play politics with me. I don’t want to hear it.” Silverspire’s shoulders stiffen and he holds out a hand. “Cooperation is in your best interest. But then, this is a speech you should know very well by now.”   
  
Prowl twists his jaw and unholsters his blaster. He hands it over slowly, telegraphing his movements, so none of the jittery officers surrounding him shoot first. Silverspire takes it from him and hands it to one of the officers standing beside him.   
  
“Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate you making this easy.” He tilts his head toward Prowl. “Wrists.”   
  
What can he do but offer his hands, head bowed as magna-cuffs wrap around his wrists, dampening the signals from the joint down. He cycles several steadying ventilations, but it still doesn’t prepare him for the sensation of the clamp of an inhibitor claw on his back and over his t-cog. He won’t be able to transform. His sensory panels droop, unable to stay upright and read the ambient noise.   
  
He feels deaf and blind without them. It’s like someone cut the volume in the room by half. It’s dizzying, and he stumbles when one of the officers push him forward, forcing him to fall in line before Silverspire.   
  
“Prowl of Petrex, you are being placed under arrest by authority of...”  
  
The words wash over and through him, crackling in his audials. He could recite them to himself if he wanted. It’s a show, a humiliating one, and made all the worse by the fact the moment they lead him outside, there’s a mob of reporters waiting. Cameras flash, recorders are shoved in his face.   
  
A raucous noise of questions scream static through his audials. He lifts his head, looks straight before him, toward the waiting transport vehicle. The grip on his elbow keeps him moving forward, propelling him.   
  
Silverspire drifts away, catching the attention of the mob, and he starts to give a speech. He reassures the public. He tells them the serial killer which has terrorized their beloved politicians has been arrested. They can all recharge peacefully now. The Enforcers have done their duty.   
  
Prowl’s name is mentioned more than once. More photos are taken, up until the moment he’s shoved into the back of the transport and a single guard climbs in after him. They lock his magna-cuffs to a magnetic bar as the doors slam shut, bathing them in dim broken only by emergency runners.   
  
“Traitor,” his guard hisses, his voice so full of disdain it seems to fill the small space.   
  
Prowl says nothing.   
  
He offlines his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall of the transport as it growls to life and rumbles down the road. Silverspire will have him taken to the station he once called home, where he’ll be processed, interrogated, and imprisoned. Sentenced to Blackgate, most likely, if they don’t execute him first.   
  
It’s part of the show. The constructed cold mech. The failed experiment. He who should have been a soldier, granted leniency, and repaying said indulgence with anger and violence. They’ll make an example of him. They’ll tarnish his arrest record. They’ll drag his name through the muck.   
  
Imprisonment. Execution.   
  
He honestly doesn’t know which is worse.  
  


~

  
  
The sander comes to a loud, grinding halt. In its absence, Sunstreaker swears his audials are still buzzing.   
  
He whips off his goggles and sets them aside, peering down at the bumper stripped smooth. Without the goggles, the perfection of his work is undeniable. Sunstreaker grins and runs a palm over the gray plate.   
  
The next step is to lay down the primer, than the base coat, then the multiple overcoats until it gleams like new. Only then can he reattach it to his client. He still has to add the decorative mark on the front – an odd red and yellow flame design. It’s going to be freehand, and it’s going to be beautiful.   
  
Sunstreaker doesn’t much care if his clients ask for something weird. So long as he gets paid.   
  
He leans back, rubbing a hand over his neck, easing the cramped cables. He’s been bent over the chestplate for hours it feels like. His grumbling tank certainly thinks so.   
  
Sunstreaker pushes to his feet, hydraulics creaking, and shuffles out of the paint room. He frowns at himself, picking at spots of wandering paint with his free hand. No matter how careful he is, there’s always spatter.   
  
Primus.   
  
He hears the newscast before he sees it. Sunstreaker snorts. Trust his geek of a brother to be watching the news when he could be watching something much more interesting instead.   
  
Sunstreaker sidles into the storage room and ducks under the mounted vidscreen. He rummages through the cabinet looking for a cube of midgrade.   
  
“Sides, we got any of that cesium-spiced left?”   
  
“I drank it all.”   
  
“Aft.”   
  
There’s a bottle of manganese at least. Not his favorite, but it’ll do.   
  
“Finish the hood?” Sideswipe asks as Sunstreaker straightens and leans against the counter, tilting his head to keep from banging it on the underside of the vidscreen.   
  
Sunstreaker snorts. “You know better than that.” He pops the cap on the flavoring and dumps the whole thing into his cube, giving it a good shake to mix it up. “Anything good on?”   
  
“There never is.” Sideswipe lifts a remote and turns up the volume as the opening tines of a breaking news alert echoes around them.   
  
Sunstreaker ducks down and leans beside his brother, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, their fields unconsciously tangling. He looks up at the vidscreen and freezes, because while a newsbot mindlessly reads off a script, there’s a crystal-clear image running beside him.   
  
Prowl. In cuffs. Being shoved into the back of an Enforcer transport.   
  
“What the frag?”  
  
Sideswipe stiffens beside him. “They did it,” he breathes. “They actually did it.”   
  
“Who?” Sunstreaker demands.   
  
Sideswipe gestures to the screen as the video shifts to something that’s pre-recorded like the footage of Prowl’s arrest. Sunstreaker doesn’t recognize the mech with the impeccably shiny armor or the slag-eating grin, but he hates him on sight.   
  
“Captain Silverspire,” the interviewer says with that cadence all reporters seem to perfect, “Can you please give us more information on the arrest of one of your best homicide detectives?”   
  
“Certainly.” Silverspire’s smile widens. “I’d like to take a moment to reassure the public that this is an isolated incident perpetuated by an individual who had a grudge and used the Decepticon movement to redirect attention from his crimes. It is by no means representative of what the Enforcers as a whole are prepared to do to protect this city.   
  
Those killed were part of a committee put together to communicate with the Decepticons and come to an accord regarding their concerns. New members will be appointed. We remain fully committed to working with the Decepticons to address their grievances and make a better, safer Cybertron for all. Thank you.””  
  
“That is the fanciest pile of pitslag I’ve ever heard,” Sideswipe growls as he clicks off the vidscreen and silence descends in their shop, save that of the machines whirring away in a ready-state.   
  
Sunstreaker’s jaw tightens. “We told him. We warned him.”   
  
“Yeah, we did.” Sideswipe tosses the remote on the counter. “You know he didn’t kill those mechs. Wanna bet the Decepticons didn’t either?”   
  
Sunstreaker sighs and clicks off the vidscreen, drowning the room in silence. “There’s something very wrong here.”   
  
“You’re telling me.” Sideswipe chuffs a vent. “What do you wanna do about it?”  
  
Sunstreaker frowns and rubs a hand down his face, grimacing at the gritty sensation of sanded paint still clinging to his fingers. He side-eyes his brother. “You still got Starscream’s comm?”   
  
There’s a moment where Sideswipe stares at him before he breaks into a bright grin. “Frag right, I do. You thinking to cause some mayhem?”   
  
Sunstreaker flexes his fingers together, the joints crackling and popping. “I’m thinking it’s time we stop straddling fences.”   
  
“Me, too, bro.” Sideswipe pecks a kiss over Sunstreaker’s cheek. “I’ll make the call. You close up shop and send out the notices.”   
  
Sunstreaker catches his hand before he can get too far. He draws it up to his lips, brushing a kiss over black knuckles. “You sure you want to do this? You don’t have to agree just because it’s my idea.”   
  
Sideswipe’s fingers curl against his. He grins, crooked. “Bro, I go wherever you go. So long as it’s you and me, I’m good.”   
  
Sunstreaker’s spark warms, as it always does when Sideswipe gets like this. “Just checking.”   
  
Sideswipe winks and pulls away, already pulling a datachip out of subspace with Starscream’s contact information on it. It’s probably a terrible idea that’s going to get them killed, but then. Better to die for something than merely because of something.   
  


~

  
  
“He’s late.”   
  
“Or he’s not going to show.” Starscream kicks a heel against the ground. “Face it, Megatron. Your little pet Enforcer is not going to join us no matter how much you entice him.”   
  
Megatron cut the Seeker a sharp look. “He is not a pet. He is integral to the continued success of the Decepticon rebellion.”   
  
Starscream sniffs, his wings flick-flicking with agitation. “And I’m sure that has nothing to do with how pretty he is.”   
  
“Starscream.”  
  
“There are others,” Starscream near-hisses, an argument he’s made before. “Enforcers more pliable, those already on our side. Why do you insist on courting the one most likely to refuse you?”   
  
“Because he’s the best,” Megatron growls. He steps closer to the Seeker, whose talons extend on instinct. “He’s one of us. He understands.”   
  
Crimson optics flash at him. “Your insistence on relying on faith in those who would return us to our chains is nauseating,” Starscream snaps. “And it’s going to get us all killed.” He cocks his head. “Did you like prison that much, Megatron? Because that’s the only place your pet is leading us.”   
  
Anger flashes hot and bright. Megatron’s engine revs. The distance between them is a few steps.   
  
“Silence.”   
  
Megatron goes still. Starscream freezes. They both turn to acknowledge the third voice – Soundwave. His terse monotone slices through the tension like a vibroknife, and though masked and visored, his expression is clearly one of disappointment. Not unlike Terminus as a matter of fact.   
  
Megatron presses his lips together and cycles a ventilation. “You have news?” he asks.   
  
Starscream mutters something and folds his arms over his cockpit, wingtips twitching.   
  
“Prowl arrested,” Soundwave says as he moves into their sphere of tension, gaze cutting from Starscream to Megatron. “Moments ago.”   
  
“Why?” Megatron demands.   
  
“Murder.” Soundwave produces a datapad and hands it over.   
  
Breaking News is Top News apparently. It’s on every channel, every feed. It is the only headline. There are images to accompany the report, of Prowl being led away in handcuffs and shoved into the back of an Enforcer transport. His crimes are splashed over very feed: murder, collusion, conspiracy.   
  
There’s an interview with his commanding officer and an attached transcript. Megatron clicks on it, skimming through, anger boiling and bubbling in his belly.   
  
“It’s a farce,” he realizes aloud. “All along. It’s been a farce to endear us to them.”   
  
“Affirmative,” Soundwave says.   
  
“That’s almost clever of them.” Starscream snatches the datapad from Megatron’s hands and reviews the contents for himself. “If Prowl is the murderer and not us, then it looks as though they are seeking justice on our behalf. By vowing to continue working with us, they appear to be on our side. Any Decepticon with only half a processing unit would fall for it. Might even support that ridiculous registry or worse, sign up for it.” His optics narrow, and he looks up at Megatron. “Do you think they knew we would attempt to recruit Prowl?”   
  
Megatron folds his arms. “They would have guessed. Prowl does fit our requirements. They already know he was dissatisfied, the sort to… stir the pot.” He vents noisily, rapping his fingers on his folded arm. “The only question now is how we respond to this.”   
  
“Deny or claim,” Soundwave poses.   
  
Megatron tilts his head. “Exactly.” He presses his lips together, processor churning. “We had him,” he mutters through ground denta. “Prowl was ours. He intended to join us.”   
  
“Or he’s been working for them all along, and he’s playing for our sympathies right now,” Starscream drawls. He smacks the datapad against Soundwave’s chestplate and lets it go, forcing Soundwave to catch it. “We go after Prowl, and we risk playing right into their hands.”   
  
“You trust him so little,” Megatron says.   
  
Starscream snarls. “And you trust him too much.” He shoves a pointed finger at Megatron’s chestplate. “Even if this doesn’t turn out to be a trap, who’s to say he’s not a spy afterward? It’s a classic maneuver. Just ask Soundwave.”   
  
“Because I don’t think this is the case,” Megatron argues, his vents cycling in larger bursts. “I’ve spoken with Prowl. I’ve felt his field. I’ve--”  
  
Starscream holds up a finger and turns away from him, other hand rising to activate his comm. “What is it?” he snarls. “I’m in the middle of something so if you--” He cuts off, and his wings jerk upright.   
  
He turns slowly, very slowly back toward Megatron. One lip is curled upward in a curve Megatron would almost identify as triumphant.   
  
“Really,” Starscream drawls and his wings flutter in a manner Megatron has learned to recognize as pleased. “In that case, start packing. I’ll give you a comm when we have a plan.”   
  
He pauses before a dark chuckle rolls from his intake, “Oh, the promises you make.”   
  
Starscream lowers his hand, clearly ending the comm. He pauses under Megatron and Soundwave’s expectant looks, examining the talons of one hand.   
  
“Well?” Megatron prompts.   
  
Starscream grins with a flash of denta. “You win some, you lose some,” he sings. “We’ve got two pretty twins who are anxious to get their favorite Enforcer back.”   
  
“Starscream approves?” Soundwave asks.   
  
Crimson optics cut toward him. “If Prowl can earn the trust of those two enough that they’re willing to drop everything and join us? Then I think I can give him the benefit of the doubt.” Starscream flicks his fingers as though scraping dirt from beneath the talons. “He gets one chance.”   
  
Megatron sighs and resists the urge to growl his irritation to the heavens. “Then if that’s settled, we need a plan. An effective one.”   
  
Starscream smirks. “Do you want to make a statement or do you just want quick and clean?”   
  
“If they don’t realize it was Decepticons who sprung him, all the better,” Megatron says.   
  
Soundwave shifts in Megatron’s periphery. “Onslaught.”   
  
Starscream’s optics flicker. He stiffens. “What about that buffoon?”   
  
But Megatron is already nodding. Soundwave says so little, but what he does say is worth so much more. “Yes, you’re right,” he says. “And Makeshift, I think.”   
  
“Affirmative,” Soundwave says.   
  
Megatron cycles a ventilation, finds calm now they have something like a plan of action. Starscream’s caution remains at the forefront of his thoughts, but he still finds it unwarranted. If it is a trap, Prowl is unwillingly at the center of it.   
  
Megatron is certain of this.   
  
Prowl is one of them. And if there’s any chance of achieving what they seek, they will need his help.   
  


***


	9. Chapter 9

Prowl’s been denied his request for legal representation. Apparently, domestic terrorists aren’t afforded that right. If it’s a law, it’s new to him, but it’s not as though Prowl can comm anyone to complain.   
  
He can’t make a single comm right now. He’s tried. He’d thought to contact Shockwave, Orion Pax, even the twins. He didn’t dare try reaching out to Megatron.   
  
There’s always static, nothing but static. They’ve stuck him in a cell with a signal dampener, as if he’s the worse kind of villain.   
  
It’s hard to interrogate an Enforcer. They already know the playbook, and Prowl’s no different. He opts for silence, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He spends the hours in meditation, going through the evidence and facts one by one until he forms a concrete theory at the back of his mind.   
  
The only unsolved mystery is the mastermind. Who he has to blame for the whole charade. It has to be someone with enormous political pull. Prowl can think of no one he’s angered that much. Or perhaps it’s not even about him.   
  
It’s probably about Megatron and the Decepticons, and Prowl is nothing more than unfortunate collateral damage. He’s not special. He’s simply the one Megatron reached out to, the one who rattled the cage, the one who made it far too easy for them.   
  
Silverspire questions him. Over and over. Always with a grin, a flicker of his armor that suggests he’s gloating. He’s never much liked Prowl, and it’s even clearer now. He’s thrilled to be getting rid of the scraplet gnawing on his heel.   
  
Give an idiot a modicum of power in a system where very few have any, and he’ll think himself so special he doesn’t care how he’s told to use it.   
  
The idea of a trial is laughable at best, but it’s still being insisted upon. Prowl suspects they want to make an example of him, to prove any number of things, to both the citizenry and the Decepticons. His face, his story, will become a rallying cry, a lie made into a promise, and Prowl will either rot away in Blackgate, or he’ll be summarily executed. It’s only a matter of time.   
  
He gets no visitors. Whether it’s because no one cares or no one is being allowed to visit him, Prowl doesn’t know. He suspects it’s more of the former than the latter. He’s made few friends over the years. Even fewer allies.   
  
Tumbler doesn’t come. He wishes he weren’t surprised. He wishes, even more, it didn’t hurt.   
  
He’d thought if he focused on his duty, on his job, it would get him somewhere. He thought he could prove his dedication, his work ethic. He thought if he worked hard enough, they would see the circumstances of his sparking had little to do with what he was actually capable of. Then maybe, just maybe, he could work past the framism and acquire the position he sought.   
  
He’s a fool. That’s all there is to it.   
  
Four days into his imprisonment and Silverspire swaggers into his cell with a look of triumph. “Well, as fun as this has been, it’s time to turn you over to someone else’s authority,” he says and a hint of disgruntlement flickers over his face before it’s buried behind the glee again. “Apparently your crimes deserve a higher authority.”   
  
Prowl says nothing. Silence has been his only ally.   
  
Silverspire continues without his input. “We’ll be transferring you out shortly. It’s in your best interest to cooperate.” He tucks his hands behind his back, bobs on his heels. “I hear Captain Format is a real hard-aft.”   
  
Yes. Prowl has heard of Format. He’s one step between Prowl and a lifelong residence in Blackgate.   
  
Prowl picks at the armor beneath his magna-cuffs, where the paint has been scraped raw, until there’s nothing but protoform visible now.   
  
Silverspire gusts a vent. “Your silence isn’t helping you, Prowl. I know you know that.”   
  
When Prowl says nothing, Silverspire grits his denta so hard his jaw tics. “Have fun in Blackgate,” he says, and spins on a heel, banging on the door for the guards on the other side to let him out.   
  
Prowl doesn’t watch him go. There’s little point. A transfer, hm? Well, at least he can rely on a change in scenery for however brief a time.   
  
He doesn’t have long to wait. Almost immediately after Silverspire departs, his cell clicks open again, and two new faces squeeze inside. One of them bears the quadruple bars of a sergeant. The other is a standard officer, and he’s the one who has a weapon trained on Prowl from the moment they enter.   
  
“This is who we’re going through so much trouble for?” the sergeant says. He huffs derisively. “Doesn’t look like much.”   
  
“Don’t you know, boss? It’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,” the officer drawls.   
  
There’s something almost familiar about his voice, but Prowl can’t be certain. He doesn’t recognize the mech, but perhaps he’s seen him while working another case over the decades. He’d visited Format’s precinct once or twice, and none of Format’s detectives had left a good impression on him.   
  
Said officer steps forward and kicks Prowl in the nearest shin. “All right, traitor. Get up. Nice and slow. I’ve got a twitchy trigger finger, and sometimes, I just can’t help myself.”   
  
Prowl rises, knees and joints aching and crackling like a mech thousands of years his senior. He feels old and heavy, burdened perhaps. Or that’s because his sensory panels are still a dead weight behind him, and he can’t adjust for them, making his balance a tenuous thing.   
  
The sergeant takes him by the elbow, and Prowl gets a glimpse of the glyphs stamped into the side of the mech’s head. It’s a name, rank and serial number.   
  
Prowl’s appalled. He’s heard of other districts that mar their Enforcers in such a way, but he’s never seen it. Sergeant Acres, according to his glyphs, tugs Prowl forward, and Prowl stumbles after him, carefully keeping his silence. The officer trails in their wake, and Prowl senses the weapon aimed at his back, between his panels, right at his spark.   
  
In the hall, two more officers wait. One is unfamiliar, the other Prowl recognizes.   
  
Barricade grins at him, his gaze long and lingering as it rakes Prowl up and down. “Well, well, well,” he drawls as he shifts his weight, and his glossa slicks his lips. “We meet again, old friend.”   
  
‘Friend’ is one way to put it. Torrid love affair of bad ideas is another. Barricade’s had a repaint since then. He’s mostly black with only hints of white, when before his paint had matched Prowl’s almost exactly. Others used to think them twins and maybe that was part of the allure for Barricade.   
  
“Hear you’re coming to my turf now,” Barricade continues with a flutter of his sensory panels, head tilted to highlight the glyphs stamped on the side of his head. “It’ll be just like old times.”   
  
“The transport ready?” Sergeant Acres asks.   
  
The other officer snaps to attention, in the way that only new recruits and initiates do. “Sir, yes, sir. It’s waiting out front.”   
  
Sergeant Acres sighs and tightens his grip on Prowl’s elbow. “Go get it running. We’ll meet you there.”   
  
Newbie snaps a salute and then he’s gone, at a run almost, and Prowl can’t tell if he’s eager or frightened. Maybe it’s both. This is kind of like throwing an infant into deep water. Sink or swim. Maybe that’s just how Captain Format operates.   
  
“The rest of you, let’s go, standard formation,” Acres barks and he tugs on Prowl again, towing him down the hallway.   
  
Prowl stumbles after. Officer One keeps the blaster trained on his back. Officer Two takes a point. Barricade slides in on Prowl’s other side, boxing him in. Prowl’s not made any attempt to escape or retaliate. Why the heavy security?   
  
He doesn’t ask. He suspects no one would answer anyway.   
  
They’d preemptively cleared the halls, but as the odd procession passes transteel windows and through them, Prowl can see the in-house staff of the station watching his march of shame. Mechs he’s worked with for decades, staring, their expressions a mixture of disgust, pity, and anger.   
  
Barricade leans in close, his ex-vents washing over Prowl’s audial. “I warned you, didn’t I?” he murmurs, quiet enough it carries no further than Prowl. “You have to learn to play the game.”   
  
Prowl tightens his jaw. He keeps his optics pointed forward.   
  
Barricade chuckles and leans back.   
  
There’s a media circus waiting outside. Prowl winces at the barrage of flashing lights from multiple vidcaptures. Recording devices are thrust his direction, and so many questions are shouted at him, he can’t pick up a single one from the chaos. Nameless officers one and two move to the forefront, shoving the crowd aside so the sergeant and Barricade can push Prowl through.   
  
A heavily-armored transport waits for them at the curb, powerful engine thrumming noisily, and the trainee stands at attention outside it. Prowl is unceremoniously lead to the back, and he fumbles as he climbs inside, a task made difficult with his wrists restrained to the manacle around his waist.   
  
Barricade and one of the officers climbs in beside him. Sergeant Acres stands at the door, glaring as he holds each side open.   
  
“My mechs have been instructed to shoot to kill if you so much as twitch wrong,” he growls in such a way that suggests he’s learned all of his conversational skills from poorly rendered legal shows. “I’d prefer not to arrive at the station with a frame punched full of holes.”   
  
Prowl keeps his silence, but he matches Acres’ steely gaze with a steady look of his own.   
  
Acres chuffs a vent and slams the doors shut. The entire transport rocks from the force of it. Silence descends as the cacophony of the crowd outside dulls to a low drone.   
  
Prowl leans forward, braces his elbows on his knees, and stares at the grated floor, bright spots of emergency lights running visibly beneath. There’s a strange prickle in the air, like that of an unfamiliar energy field, and Prowl can’t pinpoint it. He knows it’s not Barricade or the unnamed officer. He wouldn’t be able to sense the two riding up front.  
  
“So I’m curious,” Barricade says as he lounges back in his seat, legs stretched out in front of him, elbows braced on the bar running behind him and along the length of the transport’s wall. “When did you decide to go dark side?”   
  
Prowl ignores him. He grits his denta, tries to count statistical anomalies in his head, but Barricade’s voice grates on him, as it always did. Too snide, too smug, too much of everything that made him a bad idea. Prowl’s the king of bad ideas. Always has been.   
  
“I mean, come on, aligning with the Decepticons?” Barricade barks a laugh as the transport lurches into movement, pulling them smoothly into traffic and away from the station. “I can’t decide if that was your first mistake, your worst mistake, or some combination of the two.”   
  
Prowl’s fingers spasm where they thread together. He hunches his shoulders.   
  
“And then murder? Primus, didn’t think you had it in you, but I should’ve known. There was always something a little too perfectionist about you,” Barricade continues without any prompting on Prowl’s part. “Know what I mean, kid? How it is with those obsessive types?”   
  
The officer scoffs. “I’m not a kid,” he says in a tone far less respectful than it should be toward someone considered his superior.   
  
Then again, Barricade is an aft and a half, so Prowl can’t blame the mech for his disrespect.   
  
“True.” Barricade, of all things, leers in the officer’s direction. “Would be a waste of a pretty frame if you were.”   
  
The officer makes a disgusted noise. “No, thanks. We may not be exclusive, but we’re definitely selective.” He cuts blue optics at Barricade with a derisive curl to his lips. “And you don’t make the cut.”   
  
If he’d hoped to insult Barricade, he hoped in vain. Barricade had always been one to let every insult roll of his back. Had a prideful streak wider than he was tall.   
  
“Your brother might think otherwise,” Barricade says with a distinct leer.   
  
The officer snorts and leans back, kicking up a heel, tip of his foot pointed toward the ceiling. “I can guarantee you he doesn’t.”   
  
“Awww. Come on. Sunshine there looks like he’d enjoy some rough and tumble. Not everyone wants the sweet nothings I’ll bet you whisper day in and out,” Barricade says with a laugh.   
  
Brother? Sunshine?  
  
Wait.   
  
Prowl’s head jerks up. He looks at the officer again, for the first time giving him some serious contemplation. His paint has the gleam of the newly-applied. He holds himself with a casual ease and familiarity with danger and weapons – more like someone higher ranked than an unbadged grunt. Definitely higher ranked than what’s slapped on the side of his head.   
  
And his smile. His voice.   
  
Prowl leans back, his sensory panels clanging against the wall of the transport. His gaze slides to Barricade and back again.   
  
“Oh, he likes it rough all right.” The officer sets his weapon down on the bench beside him – a broken rule right there – and pats himself on the abdomen. “And I get to reap the benefits of it.”   
  
Barricade tosses his head back and laughs. “Please tell me you two at least have video.”   
  
“Not for the general public, nope.” The officer pops the last word with a lazy confidence that almost beats Barricade for sheer audacity.   
  
… Sideswipe?   
  
Prowl squints. No, that can’t be right. This doesn’t make any sense. Why would Sideswipe be here in the first place?   
  
Barricade’s optics cut toward him. “What’s this? Finally deigning to lift your head?” He pops an orbital ridge. “Here I thought you were just going to sit here feeling pathetic and sorry for yourself.”   
  
Prowl works his jaw. “What is going on?” he asks, and is horrified by the raspiness of his vocals. He hadn’t spoken in so long, it feels odd.   
  
“Took you long enough,” the officer says and leans past Prowl to bang on the wall beside him, three rapid beats.   
  
There’s a response in the form of two knocks and a rattle.   
  
Prowl’s ventilations hitch. “Are you…?” He doesn’t know if he dares finish the query, lest he be wrong, his hopes dashed, and made a fool in front of Barricade.   
  
“Sunny wanted to come,” Sideswipe – for yes, it is him after all – says as he slides over the bench and hops to sit next to Prowl, pulling a set of keys from his compartment. “But after painting all of us and making sure we could pass inspection, he was exhausted. Left him snuggling up with a very smart-afted Seeker.”   
  
Prowl’s mouth moves, but he can’t seem to form words. His optics slide to Barricade instead, who winks two of his four optics and pats a hand over the Enforcer badge on his chest, twice. It fizzles out of view – hologram – and in its place, a Decepticon badge shines stark and purple against the black.   
  
“We told you, remember?” Sideswipe unlocks Prowl’s magnacuffs and frees him from the manacle around his waist. “Where you go, we go. Lean forward for me.”   
  
Prowl’s mind spins. He obeys because it’s easier than trying to make sense of the universe. Even when Sideswipe grips the inhibitor claw on his back and gives it a twist, disengaging the lock mechanism.   
  
Prowl hisses air through his denta as sensation and noise immediately rush in, his sensory panels twitching at the sudden burst of stimulation. He groans, rubs at his forehead, processor aching and the world spinning around him.   
  
“Easy Prowl. Take it slow.” That can’t be Sideswipe trying to soothe him, but it is. The red twin’s hand is on his shoulder, giving him a few awkward pats.   
  
In the background, Barricade laughs.   
  
Prowl searches for a distraction, any distraction. “… how?” he manages to ask through the pain spiking his helm and the quiver in his struts.   
  
“It’s a long story.” Sideswipe peers at the inhibitor claw before he wrinkles his nose and throws it across the floor. “But I’ll try to make it short. This is a rescue operation organized by Megatron. Me and Sunny offered our help because we wanted to and apparently, Barricade’s been a Decepticon for months, and he couldn’t resist rubbing his assistance in your face.”   
  
“Guilty as charged,” Barricade drawls.   
  
“Our transport here is Onslaught,” Sideswipe says with a gesture to the vehicle ferrying them. “Former military. All Decepticon.” He pats the wall of the transport. “How’re we doin’ out there, Ons?”   
  
“There is no indication our ruse was anything less than successful,” a dark, rumbling voice remarks from all around them. “And don’t call me that.”   
  
“He and Sunny get along great,” Sideswipe says with a wink.   
  
Barricade chuckles and gestures with a clawed hand toward the front. “Up there is Ricochet and Makeshift. Poor Sergeant Acres missed this little rescue operation on account of the fact he opposed it.” He smirks, baring his denta. “Makeshift is good at replacing people.”   
  
Prowl’s head spins. “And this was all…. Megatron’s idea?”   
  
“Well, Megatron’s and Starscream’s and Soundwave’s, if you want to be picky about it.” Sideswipe shrugs. “You had over a dozen mechs working together to rescue you, Prowl. Kind of makes a bot feel special, don’t it?”   
  
It actually doesn’t. It makes him wonder if he’s worth the effort.   
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Thank you.”   
  
“Hey, it wasn’t just me. It took a lot of teamwork to spring you.” Sideswipe holds up his hands. “Of course, you’re going to be a wanted fugitive from now on, but them’s the breaks.”   
  
“At least they won’t be blaming the Decepticons,” Barricade points out with another tap to the badge on his chest. Seems to be rather proud of it.   
  
“Oh, good point,” Sideswipe says.   
  
Prowl peers at his former partner, in more ways than one. “Won’t your absence be suspicious? Especially considering you came in under your own designation to transport me.”   
  
Barricade smirks and winks again. “Not if I publicly defect.” His optics grow big and wide, gleaming with mischief. “Hey, maybe I’ll be listed as your accomplice. You know, your partner in crime.” He chuckles and licks his lips. “Partners again. Mmm. I do like the sound of that.”   
  
Prowl tosses Sideswipe a pained look. “Is it too late to return me to my cell?”   
  
Sideswipe’s head tips back as he busts into laughter. “Yes, it is.” His voice is thick with amusement. “I don’t think Megatron will like that too much. But don’t worry, you’re allowed to break Barricade’s arm if he gets too handsy.”   
  
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Prowl mutters, and winces when Barricade says the same thing in the exact moment.   
  
Prowl sighs.   
  
Barricade laughs.   
  
“It’s going to be a long drive,” Prowl says.   
  
Sideswipe leans back and crosses his arms behind his head. “But an entertaining one. Man, Sunny is so missing out.”   
  


~

  
  
“How is he?” Megatron asks.   
  
Starscream shrugs, his gaze distant. “According to Wrench, he’s in decent shape. Mind’s a bit wobbly from the extended sensor dampener. But it looks like they didn’t torture him.”   
  
“Indeed. What would have been the point? They already knew he wasn’t guilty.” Megatron frowns, directing his glare out the window so Starscream can’t see it. “He was injured when he arrived.”   
  
“Just because he wasn’t tortured, doesn’t mean a few mechs didn’t get their licks in.” Starscream tilts his head, optics gleaming. “It happens. As you well know.”   
  
Megatron presses his lips together. He doesn’t need the reminder.   
  
“Anyway.” Starscream flicks his fingers. “I’m not going to say that you’re right, but since him flocking to us means we grabbed a half-dozen other recruits, too, I’m not going to keep complaining about him. So long as it doesn’t turn into a long con. I’m still wary of that.”   
  
Megatron presses his knuckles to his mouth. “Soundwave is taking care of that.”   
  
“I’m sure he is.” Starscream snorts.   
  
“And the search for Shockwave?”   
  
“Dead end. To be blunt.” Starscream cycles a vent, his wing tips flicking left and right. “He’s vanished off the face of Cybertron, and every answer we get speaks of rumor and things that don’t exist.”   
  
Megatron raises his eyebrows. “Like?”   
  
“The Institute.”   
  
A cold flush trickles down Megatron’s spine. “I see.” He sighs and shifts his weight. “Orion has no leads either.”   
  
“Oh, so we’re working with the police now, are we? When did that happen?”   
  
“We take allies where we can get them.”   
  
Starscream chuffs a vent. “Your charge for authority doesn’t fit with our philosophy, does it?”   
  
Megatron narrows his optics. Starscream doesn’t look the least bit chastened.   
  
“It’s a matter of legitimacy,” Megatron says.   
  
“Sure.” Starscream shoves to his feet, wings hiking upward with amusement. “You just keep panting after every pretty face with a badge. I’ve got a pair of ne’er do well twins to chase.”   
  
Megatron arches an orbital ridge. “Now who’s thinking with the wrong head?”   
  
“I have a better chance than you,” Starscream retorts. He all but flounces toward Megatron’s office door and palms it open. “Mine are at least interested.”   
  
He’s gone before Megatron can form a retort. He supposes it’s fine to let Starscream get the last word in every once a while. He had, after all, helped Megatron put together a very successful heist.   
  
Megatron sits back and rubs his chin. Starscream, Soundwave, and now Prowl, with Onslaught to serve as secondary tactical advice. He’s got an arsenal of intelligence at his disposal, a collection of brilliant minds. He looks at those he’s gathered into the fold, and he allows himself to think optimistically.   
  
They’d had a chance before, however small. But now? Now they are more. They are smarter, organized, talented.   
  
The Decepticons are more than a ragtag revolutionary movement now. They will have a plan, a purpose.   
  
They can win.   
  


*


	10. Chapter 10

There are a number of messages crowding his inbox.   
  
None of them are from Shockwave. No one has seen Shockwave since Prowl last spoke with him. He’s officially a missing persons.   
  
There’s a warrant out for Prowl’s arrest. This does not come as a shock. That he’s made it into the top ten most wanted does. He’s knocked the former number ten – a serial murderer with a penchant for consuming his victim’s brain modules – out of the running. They’ve slapped him into sixth place, between some mech named Turmoil and below another mech who had a nasty habit of reprogramming rich citizens in order to steal their credits.   
  
The level of crime priority is seriously out of order.   
  
Prowl has nowhere to go, save here in the Decepticons. There is always the possibility he could arrange for a less than legal flight off planet. He could run to the stars, live in the outer rim, work on a salvage ship or for some alien civilization. If he runs far enough, he might even find a Cybertronian colony that’s been out of contact with Cybertron for so long it doesn’t remember how to get back.   
  
He’d rather stay here. At least on Cybertron, as a Decepticon, he might be able to make a difference.   
  
One of the messages is from Orion Pax. It’s short, blunt, to the point. It’s less an offer and more of a reminder. If he’s willing to come back, to do things right, Orion is willing to work his case, to help him fight.   
  
Prowl’s tempted. For one long, vent-stalled moment, he’s tempted. He thinks about fighting, regaining his position, his honor, his respect. He thinks of getting his brands back, being an Enforcer again. Solving crimes, protecting the innocent…  
  
The temptation passes between one vent and the next. He could fight, yes. But he has no faith in succeeding, no matter Orion’s support. Their superiors have already decided what will become of Prowl, and with Senator Shockwave missing as well, Prowl has no hope of finding anyone with influence to stand by his side.   
  
No, there’s not a future for him out there. Not anymore.   
  
Prowl sighs and deletes the message from Orion Pax. He doubts there will be another.   
  
His door chimes.   
  
Prowl rises to answer it, still impressed by the living quarters they’ve given him. The hab is small, but functional, and has everything he needs. They bring him his energon as needed and a fully stocked cabinet lets him flavor it to his liking. He’s allowed to roam their current base of operations – it apparently moves around quite frequently – but Prowl has yet to do so.   
  
The badge of an Enforcer still graces his sensory panels. He doesn’t know how others might react to that.   
  
The door opens to Megatron standing on the other side of it. His smile is light, easy. He’s carrying a cube of energon in each hand, and one he offers to Prowl.   
  
“I thought you might be interested in something a bit stronger than the standard fare,” he says.   
  
Prowl gives the energon a tentative sniff. Oh, it’s engex, not standard grade. It gives off a sweet and tangy scent, something tart in the aftermath. It’s quite potent. One cube is not enough to inebriate him, but it will offer a pleasant buzz.   
  
“Thank you,” Prowl says. “And not just for the engex.”   
  
“For retrieving you from Enforcer custody? There’s no need to thank me for that.” Megatron’s weight shifts, his gaze flickering over Prowl’s shoulders before focusing on him again. “We haven’t had a chance to speak since your arrival. If you’re not otherwise occupied, care to join me?”   
  
Prowl’s lips quirk into a half-smile. “I have no duties and nothing to do. I can’t see what would make me busy.” He steps into the hall, the door sliding shut behind him. “Lead the way.”   
  
Megatron turns to the right, and Prowl falls in step beside him. The Decepticon current base of operations can best be described as an abandoned hotel. Prowl’s not precisely sure where it is, save that his planetary positioning system puts him somewhere in Tesarus.   
  
“I recognize that while we liberated you, so to speak, it may present an obligation to join our cause,” Megatron begins while they walk, his tone conversational. “I want to reassure you that is not the case. Our previous communication may have indicated that’s the path you wanted to take, but I want you to know, it’s not a requirement.”   
  
Prowl tilts his head. “Oh, really? You’ll let me stay with the Decepticons and not be a part of them?”   
  
Megatron chuffs an amused vent. “Well, no. If you don’t want to be a Decepticon, we’ll happily provide you safe transport to wherever else you might want to go. I just want you to understand that our rescue of you does not place you under an obligation to join us.”   
  
“I see.” Prowl is amused despite himself. It’s fair enough. He tucks the engex into a compartment and clasps his hands behind his back. “I don’t require transportation elsewhere. I’m still intent on joining your… crusade.”   
  
“That’s good news.” Megatron hums in his intake, and if Prowl had to identify the tone of it, he’d call it pleased.   
  
Well, in for a credit, in for a stick.   
  
“I do have some caveats,” Prowl says.   
  
“I suspected as much.” They step into a lift, with Megatron selecting the top floor.   
  
The doors close, and the lift creaks upward, the kind of creak of equipment still functional, but hasn’t seen an upgrade in decades.   
  
“What are they?” Megatron prompts as he turns to face Prowl.   
  
He watches the numbers climb upward instead. “I am not here to be a trophy or a rallying cry or any other useless position,” Prowl says, because he’s had quite enough of that, thank you very much. “I want something real. I want influence. I want a position that accords me a chance to help guide the Decepticons.”   
  
In his peripherals, Megatron tilts his head. “What makes you think I ever intended otherwise?”   
  
Prowl slants him a look. “I’m acutely aware I don’t come from the same circumstances as the rest of your leadership cadre. I don’t see them trusting me. I don’t see them willingly letting someone like me have any kind of say.”   
  
“Mmm. Fair point.” Megatron hums.   
  
The lift bobs as it stops on the top floor. Megatron leads them out, but only to the nearest door with a locked panel. He keys it open, and a burst of humid, smoky air rushes in to meet Prowl. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it’s shockingly different from the odors of Iacon.   
  
They step onto the roof of a building high enough to look out onto the city, but not so high as to be above it all. A thick belt of smog hangs overhead from the factories in the distance, and a thin layer of ash and grit coats everything in sight.   
  
Despite it, Prowl’s sensory panels flex, extending and retracting, twitching up and down, as if the freedom of the roof is so much more than that of his small room.   
  
“The truth is that from the moment I decided to contact you, it was with the intention of recruiting you into my command cadre,” Megatron says as he moves to the edge of the roof, lined by a railing that crests at Megatron’s hips and is the perfect height for Prowl to lean against it to peer into the streets below. “Everyone was aware of this.”   
  
Prowl leans his elbows on the rail and looks over at Megatron. “And they approved?”   
  
“Eventually.” Megatron’s lips curl before he sips his engex. “Starscream took the most persuading, but it’s more because he’s inherently suspicious and distrustful. In the end, your capabilities swayed him.”   
  
“My capabilities. Right.” Prowl doesn’t bother to conceal his snort. “My inability to acquire a promotion would suggest otherwise.”   
  
Megatron slants him a look. “That is on the idiocies of your superiors and does not reflect your capabilities in the slightest.” He faces Prowl, hip canted against the railing. “The Decepticons, this revolution, it needs you, Prowl. Your expertise. Your clear thinking. Your tactical acumen. Your understanding of the common Cybertronian and political cogs.”   
  
Prowl squares his jaw. He pulls out the engex and gives it a sip. The engex bubbles over his glossa, sweet and tart. It’s expensive, he wagers. He’s never tasted it before, but he could enjoy it again for sure.   
  
It’s probably stolen.   
  
It doesn’t even bother him.   
  
“I want to make a difference,” Prowl finally says, looking over the railing into Tesarus, the buildings all the same dull grey as the smoky ash in the sky. It’s probably decades and decades worth of contamination that’s accumulated. “I want things to change. If that means becoming a Decepticon, so be it. But not if you don’t heed my advice. Not if you don’t realize your current path is unsustainable.”   
  
Megatron turns and leans on the railing as well, his large hands curling against it, the engex gone, perhaps fully consumed. “It would have been pointless to recruit you without heeding your advice. I wanted you as a part of us specifically because we needed your point of view.”   
  
Something in Prowl’s spark squeezes tight. He isn’t sure what to name it.   
  
“Then I’m in,” he says. “Give me a seat at your table. Give me a voice. Give me a badge. And I’m yours.” He pauses, winces. “And by that, I mean I will be a Decepticon.”   
  
Megatron chuckles and tilts his head to look at Prowl. “Does that agreement come with friendship?”   
  
Prowl tries not to cringe. “If you know anything about my history, friendship is the last of what you’ll want from me.”   
  
Just ask Barricade.   
  
Then again, perhaps Barricade is not the best source of information. Their parting had been brought about by failures on both sides of the equation.   
  
“I try not to judge based on past accusations, only present and future actions,” Megatron replies. “I’d be honored to be called your friend.” He half-turns, offering Prowl a hand. “Unless, of course, you can’t bear befriending a Decepticon.”   
  
Prowl snorts. “It’s a little late for that.” He clasps hands with Megatron, the Decepticon leader’s handshake firm and uncompromising. “Friends and allies then.”   
  
“Friends and allies,” Megatron confirms.   
  
He draws back, rests his forearms on the rail, and looks out over Tesarus. It’s a dreary, dirty city. It’s not going to be home, because Prowl’s sure they’ll be moving on from here at some point. It’s never wise to be easily found.   
  
Even if it is to be home, well, Prowl won’t be too upset about it. Home is what you make of it, and Iacon has only been a place to exist, not a place to live. He already feels freer, with this minor act of rebellion, even with a price on his head, and lies spreading through the communication network faster than a communicable disease.   
  
Friends and allies, Prowl ruminates.   
  
It’s about time he acquired both.   
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, as always, is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged.


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